


Shades of Ianto: Series One

by sarcasticchick



Series: Shades of Ianto [2]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Aliens, Canon Backstory, Drama, F/M, M/M, Season/Series 01, Series, Supernatural Elements, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticchick/pseuds/sarcasticchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto is much more than a teaboy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Roses Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of the next section which will follow Series 1 (and thus will be referred to as Series 1 because I am unoriginal). Chapters will not be episodic, rather the episodes provide fodder for the chapters. This chapter covers episodes 1-3.

Working for Torchwood Three was at the most interesting and at the least character building. Ianto could honestly think of no time that he had been more devalued and yet at the same time more demanded. It was confusing, shamefully thrilling, and degrading while maintaining a constant level of intrigue to keep his curiosity and stimulate his mind.

Sometimes, he felt no better than one of the high-priced whores sold by Trader Joe.

While the expense of his employment was taking an increasingly heavy toll, he was getting closer to the cure for Lisa; he'd finally located Dr. Tanizaki. The doctor had a few projects he needed to wrap before traveling to Cardiff, but the man had sounded disgustingly eager about evaluating Lisa. If he were not the only expert in cybernetics with the remotest chance of helping her, Ianto would have kept looking. He was breaking countless rules by involving Dr. Tanizaki -- the man wasn't connected in any way to Torchwood and Ianto would have to be very careful to concoct a story that explained Lisa's condition (and the Hub) well-enough, yet masked the truth. But Ianto had to continue, Lisa -- _his_ Lisa -- was still there. He couldn't stop until she was whole again, just as he remembered.

To give himself time with Lisa, Ianto worked long hours at Torchwood, creating projects to explain his presence after all the others had left. His official duties included everything from mucking the Weevil cells to making coffee (tea for Toshiko) to doing whatever Jack told him to do (and learning far too many secrets of Torchwood Three in the process). Unofficially, he buried himself in the Archives, studying alien tech discarded by Tosh and Jack as broken or unimportant, updating Torchwood Three's books, and researching possible global connections with institutes much like Torchwood (difficult given the secrecy each shrouded itself in). Some were merely cult-like groups believing they had witnessed alien activity in their area. Others, like Area 51 in the United States and Germany's Kleine Welt Gruppe, appeared legit, situated near or on top of their own temporal rifts. Ianto didn't share this information with anyone, not that anyone would really care to listen. Torchwood Three had enough intrapersonal problems; external sources would only compound matters.

Suzie had finally collapsed under the strain of the glove. Her spiraled decent into the darker depths of humanity had been unsurprising to Ianto, viewing everything as the outsider he was; he had thought Jack had seen it as well. However, while cleaning two drying blood pools from the Roald Dahl Plass, Ianto realized he had been gravely mistaken. Miles and Wilson had distracted both his boss and his team. And now, they had lost another.

Ianto was already investigating a PC Gwen Cooper to replace Wilson when Suzie became the next victim of Torchwood arrogance and ignorance. On paper, Gwen appeared a prime candidate for the role (obsessive-compulsive alien-game-playing grass-green-shirt-wearing spy notwithstanding). After watching her for some time, though, Ianto reached the conclusion she was too soft and malleable for Torchwood. She might be stubborn at times, even inquisitive, but she lacked the ability to distance herself, desensitize and not internalize a situation. Here her core essence would bend to the savagery of the universe -- a fatal fault in Torchwood's world. Good intentions paved the way to Hell and hers would be a very fast trip.

Jack agreed with Ianto's observations and had set up an encounter with the determined woman to administer the retcon. Gwen had arrived as planned and Ianto couldn't help but feel relieved as he had sent her to Jack -- she was innocent, a good person on the surface. Torchwood would only twist that goodness.

But following Suzie's death, Jack hired Gwen -- both because they needed a replacement and, in what Ianto believed the ultimate source of Jack's actions, to add some "humanity" to Torchwood Three. Ianto suspected it was Jack's attempt to make amends with his conscience for his part (or lack thereof) in Suzie's downfall. Ianto was distressed (not jealous) by the attention Jack lavished upon Gwen as he tried to overcompensate and imbue Torchwood's mission with humanity. Untrained and unprepared humanity. Jack was already warping her, exposing her to the darkness that fought the light and the fine line Torchwood danced to maintain the balance. He was training her how to use a gun, for pity's sake.

It was like Elaine had said, Torchwood blackened everything, paper burning from the center out, until the smoke and ash strangled the last breath of humanity from the soul.

A sorry state for an institution designed to be Earth's saving grace.

His mother would be so proud.

On Gwen's first day on the job, a dozen red roses from her boyfriend were delivered to the Information Center. Ianto had choked down the urge to vomit, and not from the disgusting display of affection. Roses had been Lisa's favorite flower, though she preferred a deeper red than the ones Rhys had sent. She'd worn perfume scented with rose oil and lined her bedroom with framed pictures of roses. When Ianto had packed her flat immediately following the battle of Canary Wharf, he'd taken special care with everything rose, although by the end he never wanted to see another. He'd moved it all to his place, though it was never unpacked. Initially, the desire to see her face when she realized he had saved her roses overwhelmed any grief and loss; now the sight of red roses simply reminded him of his failure to save her. He would succeed in the end, but for the moment it was so hard to keep believing that.

When the roses had died and turned brown-black on Gwen's desk, he took great joy in disposing of them.

Ianto rarely slept; he had little time for it and he was so close to finding Lisa's cure. He took one day off, though that was a day he didn't think even Lisa would blame him for taking. Jack never questioned him either. Owen had a grand insult prepared when Ianto returned the following day - something about survivor's guilt which must have taken him the entire day to create. Jack must have heard the insult as well; that day, Ianto didn't have to clean out the Weevil cells since Owen had already taken care of them.

Owen was wrong. Ianto hadn't enjoyed his day off. He would sleep and enjoy days off after Lisa was restored to good health -- sleep long into the morning when dawn's early rays warmed the bed, stretching lazy as a cat with Lisa curled beside him. They'd rise slowly, beginning with him staring at her ethereal beauty, memorizing her body as the light bent and curved around her until she was awash in morning glow, no taint or darkness to be seen. She'd awaken under his gaze, smiling in warmth and love as she touched his lips, painting on promise with the sun's blessing. That was sleep and waking, not the haunted nights filled with angry ghosts and the vengeful dead chasing him from his bed to stare at a burning fire, tongues of flame pulling him from his thoughts into escape where even the lingering smell of rose couldn't follow him.

Six months following his nephew's birthday (and Mile's death), Ianto's birthday cake had been a glossy ink-black dragon with a red underbelly on a silver shield. Resting next to it was a long sword with a phoenix curling around the hilt and piped wings stretching the length of the blade.

Ianto had told his sister to make whatever she wanted, not feeling as vested in his birthday celebration as she. He'd half expected a green alien head, though that probably would bring too many painful memories still too close to the surface for his family. He supposed the sword and shield were meant to be symbolic, some grand gesture of family and the lengths they'd go to protect him despite his choice to fight a battle they disagreed with. Or at least that Elaine disagreed with. His sword and his shield; offense and defense, supporting and comfortable no matter how challenging the opponent.

He had to leave the room for a moment after he blew out the candles, deep breaths of crisp, chilled air filling his lungs and clearing his head. He'd remained there until his father had come out to find him, placing a hand on his shoulder and finally guiding him back to the family.

Gareth and Bryce had loved that the icing turned their tongues purple.

He never went to _Lana's_ anymore, she'd refused to serve him last time he went. _"Love, not even tequila will help you tonight,"_ she'd said, _"but if you want to talk about it, the fizzy water's on the house."_ Furious, he'd left, almost ending up in the Bay so blinded by the need to lose himself that he had nearly permanently succeeded. Ianto had sat horrified and shaking in his car, chasing his breath until finally he had to throw the front seat back as far as he could to place his head between his knees. He was desperate, but unwilling to seek out the one who he knew would not ask questions.

They'd fucked twice since the first night in the club -- Jack had found him in the shower washing off two sets of blood following Suzie's death. He'd slid his air-chilled skin right up against Ianto without warning (though Ianto had heard him come in), barely pausing for any preparation as he used the lavender-scented conditioner Ianto purchased for the team's use to slick his cock and fuck Ianto senseless against the shower wall. Ianto understood the need; when Jack's hand had closed around his, Ianto had squeezed his acquiescence in reply.

The next time had been in the Archives over one of the desks. It had been a long day by even Ianto's standards, and his eyes played tricks on him while he hid away in the cavernous room. He'd found a reference to the cybermen in the Archives, a reference that stated that during the conversion process all traces of humanity were eradicated. But Lisa wasn't converted. She wasn't. He could still see her beautiful face, the lips he'd butterflied a kiss upon eons ago, standing in the light of her flat's entrance way after their first date. She still existed. Her soul still lived within her body and he wasn't giving up on her yet, no matter what he read.

Jack had found him sitting on the floor hours later, surrounded by the chaos created through organization, apparently concerned. He hadn't said anything, hadn't needed to -- just pulled Ianto off that cold floor, then dropped to the floor himself, unzipping Ianto's trousers and blowing him within a breath of orgasm. Ianto had fucked him over a research desk then, paper cascading over the edges as they rocked the hard wood against the stone wall. Ianto almost paused to ask if Jack smelled it too, the scent of red roses. But he didn't; Ianto knew the guilt smelled only for him.

They didn't speak of those times and Jack never mentioned _Lana's_. He just seemed to understand and know when to approach Ianto when they both needed.

Ianto didn't seek him out, that wasn't how things worked. Keep a distance, don't get close. That was the rule of Torchwood, the unspoken rule underlying every policy and tiny print. It was in the destruction of Torchwood London, it was in Miles, Wilson and Suzie, it was in Elaine and Simone. So he sat in his car, staring at the Bay, ignoring the rain that fell like rose petals on his windshield.

She would make it, Ianto knew she would. She had to.

***

He was so close. Ianto knew the answers were just there, outside his reach, beckoning to him with swirling tendrils flicking his face as they danced, they and Lisa. dancing around a pile of metal which flowed and twisted on itself, fingers creeping towards Lisa who paid it no attention, no matter how much he yelled. He knew--

"Ianto." _"Ianto?"_

Ianto felt like he was floating; then he realized he was, just a hair's width from the floor and the up-turned stool he'd been sitting on. His heart was thumping in his chest like he'd run a kilometer full-pace and he was _floating._

 _"Yes, you are."_

The voice in his head made him panic before he placed it. Jean-Luc. He'd dozed off, then. Some watchman he was, sitting at the Information Desk sleeping while anyone could have walked in ... wait, he'd have heard the bell chime. That should have woken him. Shouldn't it? Ianto righted himself (with Jean-Luc's help) and then the stool, eyeing his old friend leaning casually against the door frame, door closed.

"Did you 'port in?" Ianto hadn't known it was possible, there were enough safe-guards on the Hub and the Information Center that certainly an alarm of some sort would have alerted ... no. From the smirk on Jean-Luc's face, he had disabled those, too. Probably the cameras as well. Hopefully, otherwise Tosh was going to have an eyeful looking through the CCTV. Devious bastard. Ianto only hoped his friend had reset them; Jack would have his head when he and the rest of the team returned.

"What, into the place I know nothing about?" Ianto didn't believe the innocent tone for a moment, the smile far more revealing. Jean-Luc provided security for Ms. White's office, he probably heard a lot. Including the existence of Torchwood. Ianto considered it a very good thing that Jean-Luc was on their side. "Teleporting's not my thing, I used the door. Lana's right, you look like shite."

Or maybe not. Now Jean-Luc and Lana were conspiring against him. Ianto rubbed a hand over his face to try to wake himself up, stopping when he caught sight of something on the floor. He couldn't breathe, couldn't argue with Jean-Luc, just stared as he remembered the last time he'd seen one. Lisa had spilled a trail on the floor, a path leading to her bedroom where she had laid in red satin on a bed of them. A special night for him, to celebrate his birthday (false, but she didn't know that. Only his father and Elaine ever celebrated it on the proper day). It had been a perfect night, surrounded by roses.

"Ianto? You okay?"

He was worn out. Exhausted. Plagued by ghosts. And now the stress and guilt had crept into his sanity and begun toying with his mind. It was a sign of psychosis. Had he broken? After all this time? Did one usually recognize when sanity splintered into a thousand pieces? Olfactory and visual hallucinations. Those were a sign of schizophrenia. Along with--

 _"Ianto!"_

\--hearing voices.

He recognized the voice, however. And unless he was hallucinating Jean-Luc as the voice of God who was standing in front of him with a hand on his jaw, Ianto was safe. For the time being. Though once Jean-Luc began instructing him to take wrathful vengeance on all the sinners and to wrap his place in aluminium to keep the government out, he knew he had cause to fear. But at that point, he probably wouldn't even be aware of the break in reality ... and really, that was alright by Ianto. Ignorance could be bliss.

Ianto felt pressure under his chin, lifting his eyes from the floor. And met Jean-Luc's pale blue eyes.

Instinctively, Ianto tried to jerk away. The gaze _hurt_ like looking into the sun without protection, a combination of intensity, brilliance, and a mind so vast it bled through the pale and seeped into the blinding white. Not for the first time, Ianto's breath was stolen, staring and lost in depths he'd never understand. He felt fingers curling around his jaw, long and pale -- Jean-Luc never tanned -- holding him in place, forcing him to remain still though his mind wished to run and his body to follow. Time failed to exist, not within the incomprehensible. Ianto didn't exist, though maybe he did, just a speck amidst the pale blue. It curled around him, familiar, refreshing, banishing the darkness that had crept into his soul, chasing away the pain. The hurt still lived, but it was clean. It was pure. A fragment which existed as he, but meant nothing.

He could stay forever.

 _"What are you hiding from me, dear friend?"_

Words weren't spoken, only gentle impressions resting feather-soft on Ianto's consciousness. Or within Jean-Luc's. Ianto wasn't sure where he was at. Maybe he was captured in-between, a bubbled existence between their minds. He wondered what would happen if it were broken, a moth flying into it, disrupting the peace. That fragment floated away as well, drifting. Ianto could feel it begin, a tickle. Curious, annoying. He batted it away, swatting the hands which teased. Only they weren't hands. And they returned stronger, gentle yet insistent, touch turning to push as the pressure increased -- not painful but the pale blue turned turbulent, swirling, a maelstrom twisting and tangling his consciousness as brick crumbled. Ianto could feel it, the walls flaking away, dented, bowing and bending as their integrity was stressed. Calm again, reassurance, the pale blue tried to comfort even as pushing became sharp, prying, tearing holes with a heated blade. His defenses were falling, failing, Ianto belatedly realized, thought muddled and distorted.

Once he consciously recognized it, once the scattered thought surfaced, clarity brought individuality, a sense of self. Ianto separated from the pale blue, hastily reinforcing and rebuilding the mental barriers that kept his secrets within and prying minds out. There was a brief battle, a battering rebuttal of piercing thought meeting stubborn resistance, fortified with every trick Ianto had been taught before he managed to pull away, forcing Jean-Luc from his mind. "Stop." Ianto ordered it, but his voice cracked, turning his demand into a plea. Jean-Luc backed off, hands raised in surrender, pain thinning his lips as he looked even more disheveled then ever. Ianto hoped being kicked out of his mind hurt.

"Whatever it is, Ianto, it's destroying you."

No, it was saving him. He was saving _her_. Torchwood didn't blacken everything. It couldn't have her.

Ianto ignored Jean-Luc, tugging at his suit jacket's sleeves slightly to straighten them, realigning his control after his discomposure. Finally feeling more like himself, assembled and collected, Ianto straightened to find Jean-Luc leaning against the door again, watching with a steady gaze. If Ianto hadn't known him for so long, he would have thought Jean-Luc was being casual, offering distance, but Ianto knew what that look was. His twitching fingers gave him away. Jean-Luc was worried, wary. He should be. He was lucky Ianto didn't throw him out for the attempt to invade his privacy, no matter their friendship. That kind of action would have gotten Jean-Luc thrown out of Avalon before he graduated, but then they had always been lenient when it had come to their most talented pupil.

At least Ianto had gotten used to blocking Jean-Luc when they were kids. There was too much Jean-Luc shouldn't know. "I'm assuming you didn't come here to try to hack my thoughts."

Jean-Luc didn't appear the least bit sorry for the attempt. Ianto hoped it _really_ hurt being kicked out of his mind. "No, I didn't." Ianto took his seat back on the stool he'd initially fallen asleep on and waited for his friend to continue. "One of the protected has been taken, Kjetil Nilsen. Nabbed from his home in Bergen. It was horrible, Ianto. His Guardian, his parents and younger sister, all of them killed by whoever took Kjetil."

Ianto remembered the boy, a promising microkinetics adept discovered while on his father's fishing boat. A faltering reel suddenly worked and his father was left with no other explanation than his smiling three-year old son. He would have made Grade 2 if he'd gone to Avalon; as it was, without training he'd still age into a Grade 4, possibly 3. That kind of power ... in the hands of someone who wished to do evil ... Ianto's imagination couldn't keep up with the ideas and images which crept up. And probably one of the things that kept Ms. White awake at night.

"Why are you telling me this? That's Avalon business."

"Someone's coming after Avalon. Something's happening ... you need to know. If for nothing else, when you hear of me dead in a blazing inferno of crumbled Avalon, you can tell everyone I died protecting the children. They'll make me a hero. Her Majesty might even posthumously knight me."

The subsequent picture of Avalon devastated, Jean-Luc burning as fire raged around him, was an image that Ianto knew would join his nightmares. Trust Jean-Luc to leave an added dent to his psyche. His friend was smiling; he was trying to pass off his words as joking, but the twitching fingers were back, tapping impatiently at his side like he was mentally programming himself to maintain a casual calm. Jean-Luc was pretending; he was scared and concerned and whether he was projecting his feeling of doom or not, the air reeked of it. "You're French." Ianto pointed out, picking up the one topic which seemed safe out of everything Jean-Luc had said.

"Would make it all the more special."

"Reason enough not to. You think you're special enough already." With laughter that didn't quite melt the apprehension, Jean-Luc pushed away from the door frame. Ianto stood as well, meeting him halfway for a hug that belied the earlier strain. Jean-Luc always maintained a distance from people, whether due to his abilities or a general social fear Ianto wasn't sure. He was imposing, even to Ianto who knew him well, seemingly larger than life and far wiser, although with a hint of arrogance. Not to mention the power Jean-Luc held ... if anyone knew, they would keep their own distance, and perhaps be awed as well. Up close, however, when he and Jean-Luc touched in simple embrace or the passionate tumbles they'd had in the dark empty rooms of Avalon, Ianto was reminded just how small he was. Not necessarily physical, though his friend stood shorter. But when Jean-Luc was viewed up close, Ianto remembered the thin, gangly boy who'd accidentally harmed an instructor when they'd pushed him farther than he was ready for. Ms. Granger had broken her arm. Jean-Luc looked just as haunted and fragile now. And if it were true and the protected were disappearing, perhaps he was.

"Stay safe, Jean-Luc."

***

Jack was sleeping -- a rare moment, Ianto knew. When Jack slept, the Hub grew quiet, lonely, save for the heartbeat several floors down echoing in Ianto's ears, reminding him of his duty, of his purpose. When Jack slept, the Hub's walls shrank and the Weevils grew restless. The Rift thrummed with energy, the computer calculations hiccupped, and occasionally, Ianto swore he felt rain.

When Jack slept, space and time held its breath.

It made Ianto uneasy, working while Jack slept. The shadows had eyes and the lights whispered behind his back, speaking of lies and fate and eventual discovery to the darkness. He was even more on edge than when Jack was awake, believing Ianto off on some duty or errand. When asleep, he knew Jack would wake. And Ianto took no comfort in that.

He was so close. Ianto knew he was pushing too fast, too soon, but it was close. He'd phoned Dr. Tanizaki, requesting an earlier date. He'd done what he could to the conversion unit; he'd studied what he could study and found the information he could find. Waiting was no longer acceptable; action was necessary. The smell of roses lingered, a scent trailing him wherever he went whether he believed himself rested or not. He'd gone so far as to note what perfume or cologne each team member wore; none even contained rose oil. He changed the soap in the loo and kitchen to unscented and began requesting the dry cleaner not use anything with rose oil.

Ianto knew it bordered on obsession but he was so close. And yet he'd never felt so further from himself.

While Jack slept, Ianto stuck to the main portions of the Hub, staying far away from Lisa. At any moment, Jack could awaken and grow curious of Ianto's whereabouts. So Ianto filed, copied reports, and worked on funds requests while Jack slept, catching up on the trivial while he avoided home and the nightmares that would find him there.

Jack had left not five minutes past when Ianto felt the walls begin to close in and the shadows grow eyes. His heart sped up as adrenaline poured into his system, drawing everything into sharp focus as his feet begged to run -- run far from the Hub -- and his hands itched to hold a weapon -- a childish reaction to the quiet, and really, where was he to run when the darkness only followed? He chided himself, reaching for his coffee mug that sat just far enough from the keyboard to keep him from accidentally knocking it over and earning Toshiko's eternal anger, frowning when he found the mug empty.

And there it was again.

Movement.

If he was hallucinating, his mind was putting on a stellar performance.

The coffee mug was still in his hand as he turned towards the motion, the seat moving with his momentum as his feet followed. Owen's computer desk (tidied up, spilled milk wiped down, and the paper airplanes -- pathetic attempts, no physics applied -- discarded), Jack's office, various equipment, tools, a lab coat ... nothing.

Nothing, until he swiveled back around. His cup of coffee dangled from his fingertips, his grip loosening until it finally shattered on the ground. Ianto's chair slipped from under him in his frantic haste to get away, clattering against the ground as he backpedaled, stumbling and tumbling for the ground until his chaotic motions were stopped, braced from behind. Keeping one eye on the creature before him, Ianto looked down, long, green fingers (fingernails dirty, unkept) curled around his biceps, helping him maintain his vertical position. And trapping him. But he wasn't going to think about that for the moment; it was far too overwhelming.

He knew who these creatures were.

Two were flying, teasing Myfanwy who raced back into her den. Four crouched in various spots in the Hub: Owen's desk, the Captain's, one was swinging off the steps and the other was playing in the Tower's water. And the one holding him. And the one in front.

They were no taller than he. Ianto had assumed from the stories that they'd be frightfully large or mimicking imagined creatures from the tales. Oddly, they appeared lengthier, like their legs would double their stature if they straightened from their perpetual crouch. But they were his height, stronger, leaner. Shadowed green, with bulbous rose-white masses and wiry hair above their strikingly human eyes.

Bouncing around the Hub, barely in one spot for long, the six barely registered, but Ianto caught glimpses. Fragile wings, a child's laughter ... and why wasn't the alarm ringing to alert Jack, Jack who was sleeping and had failed to hear the chair crash to the floor? Though what Jack could do to help, Ianto wasn't certain. If there was anything to believe from the myths and legends, there was nothing to be done. In fact, Ianto would feel much better if Jack never woke until morning -- this manner of death might prove permanent.

The two creatures remained still, however, one holding him and one standing in front. The one in front had startled him, sitting on Tosh's desk and messing with the papers Ianto had neatly organized. For some reason that bothered him, the disarray and disrespect. Now it swayed, swinging as it moved closer, bringing the smell of roses as it danced before him.

He knew what these creatures were. He knew their name.

The Faerie. The Mara.

Ianto tried to run, tried to break away from the one holding him. But the fingers just tightened, and the scent of dying rose and rich earth wafted over his ear, so intimate and yet so foul he could scarcely breathe. He knew how they killed, how they played. The stories told of mysterious deaths, of broken souls smothered in rose petals. God, the rose petals! The Faerie were playing and he was their game.

Just as quickly as they came, the hands holding him were gone. He was free, although a crawling sensation still tickled his nerves like spiders scampering eight-legged up his arms. Ianto stepped away, only to have another drop in front of him, blocking his path with humming wings and a long face. It was old, its smile terrifying and the eyes dark. He knew the tales of happy sprites, mischievous and laughing, pure in their innocence.

There was no innocence in these eyes.

He moved again, and this time the others fell into place. A ring of eight surrounding him. They shifted as he moved, the circle flowing to contain him as they chattered with multi-toned voices in a language Ianto had never heard. If he hadn't been so scared he'd have found it intriguing; as it was he had to fight the urge to scream, quite certain that would wake Jack and this was something he didn't want Jack involved in. Ianto looked about him, finally choosing to stand still within the circle. The Faerie followed in kind, their wings which vibrated the air slowing until the air no longer sang but rather thrummed with a soft beat, matching the heartbeat he felt in his throat. He spoke, thrilled when his voice remained steady, uncracked by fear. "Would you care for some tea? Coffee?"

"We have been watching you, human."

One of the Faerie stepped forward from the circle, encroaching on Ianto's limited space within the ring as it spoke. He couldn't determine whether it was male or female; neither appearance nor voice gave any indication. In the rational corner of his mind still curious despite the fear, Ianto wondered if perhaps that was their way -- perhaps they didn't reproduce and didn't have a gender. Gender was a relatively human perception any ways, and these creatures were beyond humans. It was said they didn't even exist in regular human time, though they lived in a land of Earth.

The Faerie moved round him as the others watched, maintaining the circle with seven points. For a while, he spun to keep his sights on the one closest to him, but quickly realized it could move much faster than he could spin. He should have been concerned, he should have been worried by the revelation but the detail explained so much that it was hard to be wary of the confirmation of his sanity.

 _"Long, in vale of fog and mist,  
The spirit in sopor lives,  
In time r'turns, with love combine,  
Chasing time to save victory, sorrow rains while light doth shine."_

Confused, Ianto tried to follow as the other Faerie echoed what the first had said. It made no sense; the Faerie were making no sense.

"Your choice is ours, Ianto. And our choice is yours."

With a tap of a long, green finger on his chest, over his heart and nearly stopping it with fear, the Faerie sprang from their circle, wings flapping fast as cardboard in his bicycle's wheels as a child. They disappeared in a flash of light, too bright; making Ianto's eyes tear in response. By the time his vision cleared and the negative images of floating spheres of black-light blinked away, the Hub was again quiet. Ianto didn't hear Jack; the Captain still slept. But while Jack slept, the Hub awoke. Shadows retreated into their corners, and the lights spoke nothing as they kissed the shadows goodnight.

Ianto stared at the floor where eight rose petals lay gently curved among shards of cream ceramic. Now he understood. He understood that he knew nothing. He knew nothing of the earth, he knew nothing of time, he could not fathom why the sounds of children's laughter made him wish to weep. He knew nothing of why he still lived. And Ianto knew nothing of what they meant.

Eight blood-red petals. The Faerie were watching him.


	2. A Rock in White Rapids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is through Episode 4.

The Secretary of Research and Resource Acquisition established a support group following the Battle of Canary Wharf for the twenty-six who somehow lived. They met once a week in London to talk, share stories, cry and reminisce, uniting against a world that still viewed them as exceptions, as oddities -- quirks of nature, not survivors. There had even been a retreat three months prior, off in Edinburgh, apparently with camping and bonding.

Ianto never went.

He never really wondered what it was like; he didn't really care. He didn't count himself among the remaining twenty-six, although he kept tabs on everyone. He didn't fit their grief. In fact, the only thing he did fit were the suspicious looks he occasionally received from Owen. Ianto wasn't sure who had died at Torchwood One that Owen had known; it could have been many. But aside from the suspicion and anger he garnered for not dying as well, Ianto had no bond to share. He couldn't look at the others, couldn't face them. He'd attended every service for the dead, had been to the memorial at Ms. White's offices, had recited from memory the names for each of the stars every time he dropped by. But he couldn't bring himself to look at the ones who lived.

There was probably a psychosis for that, but Ianto didn't want to know its name. Naming it would imply that it was wrong to feel the way he felt. And given that it had fueled him since the Battle, given him the energy and the motivation to find a cure for Lisa, he didn't think it required correcting.

He'd worry about it once Lisa was healed.

That day was drawing closer, creeping slowly into clarity instead of distant and blurred. Dr. Tanizaki had arrived in Cardiff late three nights past; Ianto met him at the airport and took him to the Hilton to wait until he could bring him to the Hub. Waiting was not easy. Ianto was so close, he knew that the answer was now in Cardiff, but he had to hold back until those who barely even knew he existed left long enough to bring the answer to Lisa. He was functioning on coffee at this point, coffee and an occasional takeaway meal. He was too nervous; he was too anxious. All the time spent waiting, searching, acting, and serving ... it was all almost over. Lisa's cure was in Cardiff. Soon, she would smile in recognition, touch his face with warm skin without metal, breath without support. She would live as she once lived, not the farce of life within the metal shell she wore. Soon, his life would begin again.

***  
***

It was all over. No joy, no happiness, no tearful reunion or warm skin upon his face. There was only blood and carnage, shattered hope and forgotten dream. Time moved for the world, but it remained still for Ianto. It was the only explanation that made sense, the only rational thought that explained why the blood wouldn't wash away, no matter how much he scrubbed.

Rivers, rings, droplets. Tiny splatters and Lisa-sized blots. An arc of negative space, a spot where metal had fallen, an alloy sandbar diverting the flow. Darkened black where fire had burned. Running pink where tears fell to dilute.

He couldn't wash the stains away.

The bodies had been moved to the autopsy room; Owen had helped. Ianto knew he couldn't clean with the bodies there, but he'd snarled at Jack when he'd walked into the room, feral and caged. Ianto hadn't meant to, hadn't intended when his mouth had opened to request his boss to kindly leave him the fuck alone, but he had no control anymore. All of it was washing away. Everything he was, everything he had been, was running in red swirls down the drain and he was powerless to stop it.

For a moment, he felt what he should have felt following Torchwood One's destruction. And then he went numb.

Owen had stepped up, pushing past Jack to help Ianto carry the bodies. Ianto didn't care, so long as it wasn't Jack. Jack would never touch Lisa. Lisa was heavy with the weight of London, but Ianto was so used to carrying her that he never stumbled. Owen had struggled beneath it, though he had managed easier with Lisa Two. Too. Also. Not.

He'd never once wished to see the grey matter of a pizza delivery girl. He found it, discarded behind the modified conversion unit.

How would Torchwood explain her death?

Reluctantly, Ianto led Owen to Dr. Tanizaki as well. He was light, despite how repulsed Ianto was to touch the man who'd touched Lisa. More stains, more bodies. Torchwood would never be rid of them.

Ianto choked on bleach fumes, burning a path through his airways. At least they forced him to breathe. Earlier, he had thought he couldn't. Death was strangling, overwhelming. Owen had slapped him then, across the face. Ianto felt his skin pinch, tighten, and tingle as blood pounded his cheek to be released, to burst forward to join the rivers. It stunned him, reminded him to breathe.

Ianto almost wished he hadn't.

Owen followed him for a ways, back through the halls of Torchwood, red shoe prints marking their path. Jack and Gwen followed the breadcrumbs to them, to the storage closet where supplies were kept and on to the room where Ianto's forgiveness hid. Pure bleach on the floor, pure Gwen in his ear. She touched him, just once, on the arm covered by cloth bathed in responsibility. It felt so foreign, so unwanted, a violation of spirit, if Ianto had any spirit left. Perhaps that's why it hurt -- misplaced humanity attempting to reconnect where a soul had died. She didn't feel real. Perhaps that's why he demanded she not touch him. Perhaps that's why she cried.

Jack and Owen yelled; he heard Owen shouting to back off but Ianto wasn't sure at whom. He would have responded, yelled back only louder, but in this room his voice was gone. He was gone. There was nothing left and even the nothing was disappearing until all that remained was a hollow where time and space ended. Only the absence of existence echoed off metal and stone.

Everything, everything was bleeding away, running in red swirls down the drain.

Ianto scrubbed, hands and knees on the floor and bristled brush trailing pink foam across the stone. The stones absorbed like a sponge, soaking the stain into its marrow to darken the blood-red taint of Torchwood. The blood of the innocent would always remain. Torchwood drowned in it. It's what fed Hell, buried beneath the surface meters from the light, and beckoning to the unaware. Sacrifice and innocence, building the gates that the remaining few patrolled, hoping to stem the passing of so many lives. It'd never wash away, Ianto knew. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much bleach he used and no matter how hard he attacked the stains, they'd never wash away.

But he had to try.

The others left, though one had remained for a short time; he could feel the eyes on his back. But at the sound of a brief alarm, the eyes left, shoes echoed down the hall. They'd never understand, none of them. They _couldn't_ understand.

Ianto poured more bleach.

***

  
An eternity passed while Ianto sought absolution. Cleanse the earth, cleanse his soul; once Torchwood was pure he'd be as well. Hundreds passed before him, spirits with wings, whispering time and guilt and duty. They blamed him; he blamed himself. He was responsible. So many ghosts, so much penitence, not enough time. It'd never be enough, and it made him sick. No matter how much bleach and how hard he scrubbed, it'd never be enough to reclaim Torchwood, nor himself. Hundreds, thousands ... humanity pouring down the drain.

The ghosts fed the stains.

He was being touched; the hands on his arms felt like stabbing, grounding twin points. They reconnected him with time, pulling him away from the infinite purgatory claiming his soul. Ianto fought back, seeking to return to his quest for forgiveness from every single light he'd seen diminished. They hurt; a reminder of life, pulling him back and reminding him to breathe.

He didn't want to; he didn't want to be reminded and he didn't want to breathe.

"Ianto! Jesus ... what the fuck did you do to him? ... Ianto? ... Quit ... it's me."

God, he didn't want to listen, he didn't want to stand. Lisa's life was staining Torchwood, joining the ghosts and becoming the darkness that blanketed Hell. He could wash it away; wash away the others. Given time, he could wash away it all. He had to. It was his responsibility. He had to try.

"For fuck's ...."

 _"Ianto! Sleep!"_

The words boomed inside his head, rattling off the chasm he could feel piercing and winding its way deeper to his core. The words bounced and grew heavy, weighing down his mind and turning thought sluggish as the lights dimmed. Panicked, he clawed his way back, fighting Torchwood with what strength he had left, fighting against the darkness Elaine had said would take him. A light flared, burning to life instantly to swallow the dark. Ianto clung to this, grasping it to his chest as he felt the world sag.

It wasn't hope, but at least he wouldn't drown.

***

  
 _"Wake up."_

Ianto felt water before he felt warmth, before he felt a body behind him or before he felt the flannel. Instantly he was awake, thrashing for purchase against the bubble-slick sides of the tub as he tried to stand, but an arm across his chest held him in place and a leg locked his.

"Easy. It's just me."

The water sloshed, bubbles rippling and climbing the tub walls before settling as Ianto recognized his friend's voice. His heart raced as he rested once more against Jean-Luc, belatedly realizing he was in his flat. He didn't remember getting there, didn't remember getting in the bathtub, and didn't remember Jean-Luc. For a moment, he forgot himself, drifting back to ten years prior, enjoying a bath with Jean-Luc in a stolen moment at Avalon. Bubbles, scented lavender, tumbling down wet skin as knees bent to accommodate their frames. Sometimes they had gotten more water on the floor than had remained in the bathtub -- the cleanup a good practice for Jean-Luc's developing talents. Though, it had typically been Ianto holding the smaller Jean-Luc, not the other way around.

And then, he remembered.

Everything, all the pain, all the blood, all the screaming. All the death.

Ianto remembered it all.

A cry was strangled in his throat as he remembered, struggling again to stand and escape Jean-Luc's touch, out of the warmth and support. But either he was weaker than he thought or Jean-Luc was using a bit of his power to keep him in the bathtub, with his mind forcing Ianto to remain still, skin against skin, contact burning and evoking life. He didn't want to feel as the flannel softly circled his chest; he didn't want to remember. Lisa was dead. They were all dead. All but twenty-five others. And they might as well be, for the pain and grief. None of them had truly lived after the Battle. None of them had moved on. Only Ianto had preserved a hope of regaining what he'd lost. And now he had nothing. He'd failed her.

He'd failed London.

 _"No more secrets, Ianto."_

Turning into Jean-Luc's neck, Ianto pressed his face against the delicate skin, the warm damp hair curled at his nape. Whether Ianto was hiding or seeking comfort, he wasn't sure, but he couldn't flee the ghosts ... and Jean-Luc was so warm, flannel washing over his shoulder, down his arm, washing away what dirt that remained and spreading lavender bubbles in its wake. Ianto couldn't escape what he knew was coming; he could no longer block. He had no defenses left. Nothing left.

He had nothing.

The first touch of Jean-Luc's mind sent Ianto into a panic, body rigid as muscles reflexively tensed in fear of the intrusion. He cried; he knew he cried, sobbing into Jean-Luc's neck as the flannel circled his forearm, spreading over his palm to brush up between his fingers. He was held tightly; he could feel Jean-Luc's lips ghost a kiss on his head and a general feeling of warmth and love filtered through his body, strengthening when Ianto's resolve faltered.

Lisa was dead.

She was gone. They were all gone.

"Let me in."

With words and compassion, Ianto felt the last restraint crumble, his strength gone. Jean-Luc was waiting -- he could have torn through Ianto's mind as easily as shredding a tissue. But Jean-Luc waited, requesting permission. A simple thing, his request, but it undid Ianto and unmade his defenses.

As the flannel moved across his chest to gently cleanse the other arm, the last wall in Ianto's mind fell. He relaxed into the gentle pressure of the cloth just as the Jean-Luc's presence in his mind increased.

No more secrets.

***

  
Ianto didn't direct. He wasn't even an active participant in his mind. He hid, actually, retreating in shame and grief as Jean-Luc watched and absorbed. Everything, every little memory, thought, feeling, and action, was raised to the surface and set back in an instant. Childhood. Torchwood. Avalon. Lisa. Secrets and lies. Torchwood. Paranoia. Ms. White. Lisa Two. Avalon. Wilson. Torchwood. Every painful moment, every collective data point for every person he knew. Torchwood. Kathy Redgrave's memorial. Searching. Lisa. London. Childhood. Jean-Luc didn't linger long on the childhood, leaving some things private, it would seem. But the rest, the rest he requested and returned, experiencing one life in a heartbeat. Torchwood. Jack. Avalon. Ms. White. Fire. Lana's. Torchwood. Monster. Some things he didn't even remember; some things Ianto barely knew he knew. Torchwood. Yvonne. Cardiff. Separation. Ms. White. Faeries. Torchwood. Kiss.

He'd died? He'd died. Jack had brought him back. Had kissed him.

Arms tightened around him; Ianto realizing he was struggling again. Or maybe he was trying to claw his way from death. Death haunted him -- it had followed him from London. He'd escaped and now it followed the trail. He couldn't escape, it seemed, he couldn't run from it. Death would finally claim him, finally take him, as it had taken Lisa, as it had claimed the others. All the others. Hundreds.

All his ghosts. All his guilt and shame. And he'd called Jack a monster. Jean-Luc saw far too much, he knew too much, Ianto was as much a monster as Jack, and Jean-Luc knew.

 _"No."_

Just as quickly, memories unfolded of light and laughter, free from judgment and censure. Torchwood. Lisa. Hope. Bryce. Gareth. Sword and shield, black-red dragon, icing swirls on chocolate gâteau. Ianto shrank away, feeling smaller within his own mind as Jean-Luc filled it with joyous times, of happiness, of good and life. So bright it hurt; so overwhelming and contrary it burned, all the while love and compassion. Elaine. Father. London.

The people Torchwood saved.

Ianto could barely breathe. Reassurance and love piled on, filling him. Avalon. Rani. Lana. Jean-Luc.

The people he saved.

It was too much. Everything was too much.

Light. The darkness was swallowing the light.

With a strength Ianto found buried deep within, he broke free from Jean-Luc. The chilled water coated with dead soap film sloshed over the sides as he stepped out of the tub. The floor was slick, causing Ianto to slip -- the tiled floor was tinged pink, the blood of the innocent stuck in motion as it tried to escape.

God, it was Lisa's blood.

Lisa.

He made it just a step into the bedroom before his legs trembled and gave way, crashing and burning against the carpet. There was nothing left in him; his body folded in on itself as he gasped for air and keened his protest against Jean-Luc's careful concern. Ianto could feel the soft touches, the hesitation, so loud and echoing across his skull, which begged for silence. He covered his ears, physically blocking when his mind no longer could, his body shrinking to become as insignificant and small as he felt.

He'd lost everything; everything was destroyed.

Warm, dry cotton twists blanketed his shoulders, wrapping him tightly as arms enveloped him. He felt tears like fire tracing down his knees as they rained upon his head, tracking through his hair. He wept, he knew he wept as he knelt on the floor. But that couldn't be helped, Ianto couldn't help it if he tried. Everything he'd hoped for, everything he'd not felt and ignored -- he felt everything now.

It hurt. And yet, he was nothing. "Lisa's gone."

"I know."

Jean-Luc's roughened voice whispered softly against his hair, ruffling it as he breathed. Ianto couldn't move, couldn't look. He didn't want to see whatever Jean-Luc's face held, whatever his eyes spoke. He couldn't bear to see pity or sorrow, Ianto couldn't bear to see empathy. "I think she was lost in London."

"I think so, too."

***

  
When Ianto woke, blankets were tucked tight about him, cocooning him in his body's heat. His eyes were gummy, sandy; his lashes stuck and refused to open. But he cracked them, just a bit. The lights were dim, but he could feel eyes on him. Jean-Luc sat beside the bed in a straight-back chair from the dining room, elbows on his knees, hands wrapped around one of Ianto's mugs, watching.

Ianto rolled over, giving his back to Jean-Luc's eyes and escaped into sleep once more.

***

  
"You can't just ring and say he's not coming in with no explanation. I want to talk with him. Now."

"No."

Ianto woke, confused, to the sounds of voices arguing. A window was open, allowing the voices entrance into the bedroom as sunlight poured through the slats. Jean-Luc must have taken the initiative to phone Torchwood, tell them he wouldn't be going to work. Ianto wasn't sure how many days ago that was, but if asked if he was bothered by this the answer would be no.

He could hardly feel bothered by anything right then.

"I'll be damned if I let you in after what you did."

Wrapping a blanket around himself, Ianto stood slowly, feeling a bit stiff and shaky, like he'd laid in bed for a century; truth be told, it probably came fairly close. He'd lost track of time, lost track of everything, just curled in bed ignoring everything outside.

Peering between the long blinds, he saw Jack and Jean-Luc arguing on the front walk.

"What _I_ did? He snuck a fucking cyberwoman into my basement!"

"You have no...you made him your goddamned teaboy!"

"Let me -- what the hell?"

Ianto looked out and realized that Jean-Luc had apparently been serious when he said Jack was not coming into the flat. Jack stood, hands spread out against the air, miming a barrier, though Ianto was fairly certain Jack wasn't kidding around. So Jean-Luc was blocking Jack from entering the premise. What Jean-Luc did with his abilities was up to him, but Ianto wasn't quite sure that Jack was the one he should be telling.

"Who _are_ you?"

"Ianto was dead. Just who the fuck are _you_?"

Jean-Luc's statement stopped Jack open-mouthed and speechless -- an action which would have amused Ianto if he would have felt capable of amusement. Instead he wrapped the blanket tighter, drawing in the warmth despite the sun shining brilliantly in the window. He wondered if Jack had believed he wouldn't know, although the only reason Ianto knew was because of Jean-Luc. He might have gone his entire life, thinking it was just a kiss.

"You ordered him to kill her. You forced him to watch her be eaten alive -- to watch her die! You have no right standing on these grounds, demanding to see him!"

"I"m his boss!"

"And you killed more than just Lisa!"

Ianto felt himself crying again, though he didn't move. Didn't bother wiping the tears away, didn't even bother trying. Jack was deflated. He'd puffed up, gotten angry, yelled at Jean-Luc and now he was small again, worn. He looked tired, but Ianto was hardly one to judge.

"If anyone could have saved her, it was Ianto. Don't you understand? He's a stronger mind than anyone I've seen. He watched London fall. There was no one more able and more determined to save her, misguided though it might have been. And you made him watch her die. Did you take joy in that? Or were you jealous? Fucking him wasn't enough, so you had to kill his old girlfriend too?"

Watching Jack lunge at Jean-Luc, only to be stopped by an invisible shield, was enough for Ianto. He turned from the window, crawling back into bed with the blanket dragging a trail behind him. Jean-Luc had seen too much; Ianto hadn't been shamed by his actions before, but now he felt it, insidiously creeping into his skin, making him burrow his head beneath the pillows and blankets. Instantly, it grew stuffy, too warm, but reality lived outside, and while he could still hear their voices, at least he could pretend the outside didn't exist.

"... a monster, Jack. And you're too blind to see that Ianto could never be."

***

  
Voices carried from the main room into the bedroom. Ianto panicked before he realized it was just the telly. He didn't feel up to facing people, especially people he might know. Stretching, wincing when bruises protested, his hand bumped something on the nightstand.

Biting his lip, Ianto picked up the photo. Rage warred with sorrow; should he throw the picture far away and curse her name, or clutch it to his chest, begging forgiveness for all he had done.

He did neither, quietly opening the drawer and slipping it inside.

Maybe tomorrow would be a time for rage. He wasn't certain he would ever find forgiveness.

Ianto shuffled out to the living room, wrapped in his blanket that had become second skin. Probably smelled like it, too. Jean-Luc was sitting on the sofa, glued to some program Ianto never had the time to watch. He patted the cushion next to him and Ianto wasted little time joining him, curling up with his head in Jean-Luc's lap, just like he used to do when he was sick and his father stayed home with him.

"Now that's a connection I'd rather not have applied. And no, I'm not. You're thinking too loudly."

And his mental shields would probably not be back up any time soon. That required too much effort. While he was not a lazy man by nature, it just seemed unimportant now. "How long?"

"About four days."

That long? Ianto was surprised; he still felt exhausted and rung out, a rock tumbled downstream by way of white rapids. He certainly didn't feel like he'd been sleeping for the better of four days. "What about Ms. White?"

"What's she going to do, let me go?"

Jean-Luc began twirling Ianto's hair; he could feel the small circles drawn on his scalp. He was really going to have to shower after this -- his hair would be permanently stuck standing straight out after this. Or not. The idea of stepping into the shower nearly made Ianto choke on his next breath.

 _"I cleaned it, don't worry."_ "I could feel you all the way in London. You may lack a single telepathic bone in your body, but you sure have one hell of a projection range. Fuck if I was going to stay there and do nothing. I'm on holiday -- first in about ten years. She'll get used to the idea."

It almost made Ianto feel guilty, having Jean-Luc spend his holiday playing nursemaid to a fucked up friend. Almost in that it was almost nice, not having to do anything for a change. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to tie him to the Hub. He had no cause to return or even keep working. He had no purpose anymore. And that frightened him more than anything.

"Of course you have purpose, fool. You just veered off in a different direction for a time."

"She's gone."

"Torchwood One or Lisa?"

With a snort that Ianto swore was not a sob, he pulled the blankets tighter about himself, ignoring Jean-Luc's "tsk" as he blatantly ignored the question. It wasn't worth answering. The fingers still curled in his hair, though, so Ianto knew it was disappointment, not anger, and not long-lived. "Is there any food or did you eat it all?"

Jean-Luc didn't even bother denying it; his friend could eat more than a starving elephant. "I can order some take-away. Any preference?"

"No pizza," spilled harshly from Ianto's mouth before he could temper it, causing the fingers in his hair to still. But just for a moment; they soon began twirling again, continuing their calming pace.

"No pizza. Chinese?"

The doorbell rang before Ianto could respond, causing Ianto to freeze while Jean-Luc made no effort to stand. He wasn't answering the door. He couldn't, not now. He couldn't face people. It wasn't until the bell chimed again that Jean-Luc sighed and stood, during which Ianto took the opportunity to stretch out the length of the couch.

 _"Brat. I get my spot back."_

"Captain Harkness. I thought I told you to stay the hell away from here."

"I figured you might be hungry. How is he?"

"Sleeping."

Ianto snapped his eyes shut, faking sleep and not moving a muscle from where he had sprawled to spite Jean-Luc. Not that Jack could see him from the doorway, but if Jean-Luc had given him an out, then Ianto was not going to waste the opportunity to avoid speaking with his boss. But was Jack there to make nice with Jean-Luc, the gatekeeper and guardian of the fortress called a flat, or to speak with Ianto? From the way it sounded, and the conciliatory tone, Ianto rather thought it could be the first. Which suited Ianto fine. He didn't know what he would say to the man, much less if he could get through a conversation without fleeing the room or yelling.

 _"Admittedly, he looks about as wrecked as you. And he's sporting quite the split lip. Nice shot."_

"Do you mind if I come in? Set these bags down?"

 _"Ianto?"_

He had already decided before Jean-Luc asked, knowing Jack would not leave until he addressed whatever he was there for. Thinking sleep, Ianto continued to lie still, taking slow, deep breaths to remain calm while Jack was in his home. For all he knew, Jack could read minds too.

"Quietly."

Ianto heard them walk in, heard them pause at the living room; Jack must be looking. Well, he'd look and see a lump on the couch. Ianto wasn't moving. And he wasn't saying hi. Jack could drop the food and leave. He knew he was hiding; he'd have to face his boss some day after all the things said, all the things done, but he couldn't do it now, no matter it be pride or shame. He could still hear them in the kitchen; it smelled like Chinese.

"Should I be expecting retcon in the food, Jack?"

"No." Soft laughter. Jack was at ease, not angry this time. Maybe not entirely at ease -- Ianto could still hear tension in his voice -- but not angry. Sounds of plates, of chairs sliding across the floor. How nice Jack invited himself over for supper. Ianto's stomach rumbled; he really hoped Jack had brought more than enough for two. By the time they were done, if Jack insisted on staying, Ianto would be ravenous. "I'm not a monster -- at least, I never meant to be."

"Looked that way from what I saw."

"How _did_ you see? How did you know to come?"

"Remember the way you held the gun to Ianto's head as you shoved him against the wall and demanded he kill Lisa? Remember the look on his face -- what he must have felt? Now realize just how stupid a question that was."

There was silence, dull sounds of chopsticks hitting the dinnerware. Ianto really hoped there was enough for him; he'd hate to have to break his "sleep" to grab some food before it was gone.

 _"There's enough here. Your favorite, actually. Quit worrying."_

"Is he psychic? There's nothing in his files."

He heard Jean-Luc snort. Ianto's inability to do anything remotely measurable on Avalon's scale was always a source of amusement for his friend. He never quite understood why, but then, Jean-Luc was a terrible cook. He screwed up boiling water. The mockery went both ways.

Not to mention, there was absolutely nothing in Ianto's files.

"Not hardly."

"So it's you, then."

"I'm not all charm and good looks."

Ianto nearly laughed, it would have ruined his charade but god, Jack had met his flirting-soulmate if there ever was one in Jean-Luc. Jack did laugh; he must have thought the same.

"You scared the dickens out of Tosh, you know, showing up like that. She wouldn't stop fretting after you walked off carrying Ianto."

"Pass my apologies to the lovely lady."

"I would, but I don't know your name."

More silence, more sounds of chopsticks clicking on the plates. Ianto wasn't sure if Jean-Luc was simply being polite, not speaking with his mouth full of food, or if it was a naturally-born hesitation. Jean-Luc had no reason to respond; he could just tell Jack to sod off and be done with it.

"Jean-Luc."

Or not.

"I'll pass on your apologies, Jean-Luc. And I hate to dine and run, but I must be getting back."

The sound of chairs scraping across the floor reminded Ianto to remain still, eyes shut, not too firmly to appear awake. His skin crawled as he felt eyes on him once more; he was sorely tempted to pick up the blanket and throw it over his head to get away from the eyes but he held still.

 _"He's coming towards you."_

"Jack-"

Jean-Luc hissed quietly at Jack in warning, but Ianto could feel him hovering over the couch, paying no mind to Jean-Luc. Fearless or brainless, Ianto wasn't sure which. The blanket around him, slipped from his shoulders in his attempt to claim the entire couch for himself, was moved, tugged up close to his chin. Ianto could hear Jack breathing, so close to his ear.

Jack was tucking him in. Embarrassment threatened to make Ianto blush, but he maintained a steady breath, refusing to allow the close proximity to wreck his "sleep."

And just as quickly, it was gone, though the eyes were still upon him.

"I understand, now. Wish I didn't. My own ghosts are enough to haunt my sleep without me becoming my own nightmare."

Ianto's resolve nearly broke when he heard Jack, spoken quietly so as not to wake the (not) sleeping Ianto. Jean-Luc sounded just as surprised, if his silence was any indication. Ianto had no idea what Jack meant, but the admission meant something, if but a small something. Ianto just wasn't sure what that something was or how to define it. But he believed the sincerity, even if he didn't understand the words.

"When he wakes, tell him he's welcome back, if he'll have us. He's part of the team. Take care of him, Jean-Luc."

The front door opened and closed; Jack had left. Ianto still didn't move until Jean-Luc poked at him, shoving him until he sat up enough for Jean-Luc's lanky form to squeeze under him, where Ianto took back his former spot. Jean-Luc's fingers resumed their twirling, only this time, he reeked of Chinese.

Ianto's stomach grumbled.

"Think you'll go back?"

He thought about it, giving the idea just a little more consideration than he had before Jack had entered his flat. The thought had crossed his mind over and over, ranging from fear and apprehension to stubborn refusal to quit anything. He might even be fired and retconned back to infancy -- always a possibility. He had his duty. He had his mother. He had his family. But he'd never considered he'd be needed. Or even welcomed.

He couldn't remember ever feeling wanted by Torchwood; he couldn't remember ever having a choice.

He couldn't remember ever belonging.

***

  
Two days later, Ianto walked into the Hub. The door rolled back as slowly as ever and closed just as slowly behind him.

He didn't know what he was expecting. It wasn't like the Hub was going to change colors or grow a new tower; there wouldn't be confetti thrown or streamers with a banner hanging on the wall.

But it felt different. The air tasted different. He let the memory of Lisa wash over him, her standing where he stood. She and the others would haunt him, but at least he knew he'd tried. It wasn't much, but it kept him going, kept him breathing. Some day, he'd succeed at saving Torchwood. Right now, he was more worried about saving himself, saving his family.

Saving his team.

He caught sight of Jack standing with Gwen in a serious conversation about something. Jack's lip was still split; Jean-Luc was right, Ianto had hit him good. Jack seemed unsurprised to see him, giving Ianto a nod of acknowledgment for his arrival. Either he had assumed Ianto would show or he hid his shock well.

Ianto turned and began picking up the shit that had accumulated over the week.


	3. Multicolored Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely covers episodes 5 & 6.

From his very first day back, Ianto had fallen into his old routine: bin the rubbish, make the coffee, pick up the clutter, discard the rose petals before anyone else spotted them. It was reflexive, it was easy; he had a Pavlovian response to disorder and it didn't escape him that it was abused. Balls of wadded paper littered the floor, takeaway cups with moist, ringed bottoms stained the furniture, and the whiteboard hadn't been fully erased since its last use. It was disgusting and demeaning.

It was comforting. 

He lost himself in the trivial, in the habits, in the routines that had kept him functioning. But several times he had found himself staring down a certain hallway. Routine paved the way for his feet and his body followed, his mind still focused on shopping lists and expense reports. The first time Ianto had caught himself headed towards the basement, he'd stumbled to a halt halfway there, about-facing with military precision to return to the kitchen where he had hid, hands shaking as he tried to separate a filter to prepare coffee.

The next time had been better: he'd caught himself before he'd left the main floor of the Hub.

Jack had caught him, too. He called for Ianto from his office, his arms crossed as he lounged in the doorway. Ianto tried to understand why, mindless, his feet had tried to draw him down to the lower levels of Torchwood Three. It wasn't as though he had made frequent trips there even when Lisa -- no, the _cyberman_ , had been down there. It wasn't a habit created by time and frequency, those moments stolen after the others had left. Visiting Lisa hadn't been regular enough to create habit. However, the concern was. The worry. The constant stress of discovery. Ianto was drawn there, and he knew that was not an answer for Jack. But by the time he'd reached Jack's office, Ianto hadn't come up with a better one.

"Ianto. Important business in the cellar?"

Since Ianto's return, he'd felt incredibly awkward around Jack. Around the others as well, but mostly Jack. Gone were the flirty comments, double entendres, and banter. Gone was the touching as well. Ianto had never really noticed it before, how much Jack tended to touch him -- a casual hand on his shoulder, a pat on the back, fingers brushing Ianto's as he passed coffee to Jack, and once, Ianto swore Jack had ghosted a hand over his arse when he was bent over in the Archives searching for a file. Not to mention the times when the touches had been purposefully more intimate, more desperate and wanton. There were no touches now, save for Jack drawing the blanket up around Ianto's shoulders while he pretended to sleep. And Ianto wasn't exactly sure how to react to that, much less the general eggshells he walked upon.

It felt worse than if everyone would just yell at him, get it over with, loosen all their anger, betrayal, and confusion at him. There'd be closure then. If they did that, Ianto could at least apologize and explain his actions, though an explanation was hardly deserved. As it was, the four other members of Torchwood Three were uncomfortable and cautious around him, overly praising him for performing his duties like he was a puppy in training. Gwen even asked how he was feeling, if he wanted to talk. This from someone who Ianto believed had no notion of just how many had died that day in London. Or how close Earth had been to falling. Or his guilt. What he had truly felt was interrogated by an idealist, naive PC. With no comment, he'd handed Gwen her coffee and retreated to the Information Desk to spare himself her ridiculous support and empathy.

And now Ianto stood awkwardly before Jack, his nerves itching uncomfortably, begging to yield to the urge to twitch, to squirm, icy fingers running up and down his spine. Or to look away. But Ianto was not one to look away, no matter how great the shame or guilt. He was stronger than that; he'd been taught better. It was what had granted him an audience with Yvonne to express his concerns about the "ghosts." It was what had gotten him back to his desk following the meeting, with his superior watching on.

Standing in front of Jack, however, with no answers and knowing he had betrayed any trust the man had placed in him, Ianto looked away. A weakness, his mother would claim. And she'd be right. Lisa had not been the end of his betrayal. And for some unknown reason, that mattered.

God, Ianto hated himself at this moment. "Force of habit, sir."

"Consequences are borne of action."

Ianto had no idea where Jack was going with the statement, and for a moment, he was certain his confusion showed. He continued to stare at Jack's desk, focused on the pen in front of Jack. Was he writing his report? Would Ms. White learn what Ianto had done? He'd face her wrath; Lisa was no longer a concern. She could have his memory wiped back to infancy and at the moment, that thought was not entirely uninviting. "Yes, sir."

"I was angry, and some of those consequences needlessly hurt you. I'm sorry for my part."

"Sir?" Ianto's head came up in surprise, Jack's apology far from the anticipated comments of goodbyes and retcon. His boss was amused, amused in that way Ianto was certain was more regret than joy. He'd heard it before, when Jack spoke of Wilson and Suzie, as though their memory evoked a dark humor of Jack's past -- as though humanity itself was the source and Jack viewed the world from above, knowing the path but allowing the little ants their room to dance. Sometimes, Ianto wondered just how old Jack really was.

"Let's just say I understand obsession."

He was concerned, briefly, that Jack had added additional bugs to his flat when he had invited himself over to dinner. But Jean-Luc and Ianto had been careful. Knowing that Ms. White was listening in (or at least recording), they had kept conversation to a minimum and held most of it using Jean-Luc's telepathic abilities. Jack and Jean-Luc had argued outside, but Ianto didn't think the devices in his flat were sensitive enough to pick up their conversation. He hoped. But no, there had been nothing spoken between Jean-Luc and Ianto that could have given Jack any insight into Ianto's relationship with Lisa, much less his subconscious motivations for trying to restore her. There was nothing Jack could have inferred or gathered from the time Ianto was at home; there had been no need to speak since Jean-Luc could listen on a far deeper level. And some things were just too painful to voice.

"My obsession nearly ruined another Torchwood. I think any apologies are mine, sir."

"Then I call us even." Jack sat back with a self-satisfied smirk, his hands behind his head indicating that he believed himself the victor in the conversation. Ianto wasn't even sure if there was a winner to be had in their discussion. Given Jack's transformation, apparently there had been something to win.

"You're not going to report me?" This was the question wearing Ianto down, day and night. He didn't know what to put in his communiques to Ms. White. If Jack reported him and Ianto didn't mention it in his report, it wouldn't be only Ms. White's wrath he'd be facing. Ianto had a responsibility to tell her before Jack, but he wasn't risking alerting her if it was unnecessary.

"Report you? No, I think you've suffered enough grief at the hands of Torchwood. Speaking of unreported, I looked into your friend Jean-Luc. Funny, no reports from Britain were returned matching his age and description."

Following a conversation with Jack was sometimes similar to following a conversation with a three-year-old. Topics jumped from imaginary dogs to ice cream to poo-poo-head name calling in a matter of seconds. "You did?' Strangely, Ianto first felt relief -- he hadn't known he would care so much to remain at Torchwood Three. Relief then morphed into concern. Ianto had known Jack would investigate Jean-Luc. Not much luck to be had with only a first name but he knew Jack would try all the same. Avalon was good, however (almost as good as Torchwood) in cover ups and misdirection.

"France had many, but one in particular drew my attention since I'd seen the same name in dossiers from Germany, the States, Japan, Russia ... files on a little boy named Jean-Luc D'Aoust with some rather remarkable abilities. Parents filed for protection with the French government, said threats and attempts were made to kidnap him, that some governments -- internal and foreign agencies, science and military -- had offered them money for the kid. There'd even been an attempt on the parents' lives."

"A tragic story, sir. I hope there's a happy ending." Ianto remained expressionless, though he knew the story perhaps better than Jack did. One of the attempts on the parents had finally succeeded, though who was responsible was never discovered. At least not by Avalon. That's not to say Jean-Luc never found out, and Ianto would rather be spared that information. The less he knew about Jean-Luc's taste for revenge, the better. He was surprised, really, that Jack had been able to find enough bits scattered about to connect these pieces together; he was more surprised that Avalon had left pieces to connect.

Jack sat up straight in his chair, hands gesturing toward a file that Ianto assumed held the information on Jean-Luc. "That's the funny thing! At the age of three he and his parents just ... vanished. Foreign dossiers were eventually closed, the French reported them dead..." Jack leaned forward on the desk, tapping his pen on the file, "but I don't think he's dead. I think someone protected him."

"Maybe that someone provided him a better life than the one he would have faced, sir. Maybe he lived."

"Maybe he did."

With a quick study of Ianto, Jack stood and walked around the desk, coming close but not touching Ianto. Things were still awkward; perhaps they always would be, and Ianto was just being foolish to believe that a single conversation could recover what was lost. While Jack's flirting classified as sexual harassment in every sense of the word, Ianto rather missed it. Banter was not something Ianto had encountered at Torchwood One, being young in an exclusive and often secretive division. And Jack ... well, it was hard not to be entertained by the spark in his eyes. It was hard not to feel wanted.

"Ianto, would you mind performing your organization magic on my office? I'm afraid I've misplaced my favorite stapler in this mess."

Ianto blinked, looking about Jack's office. It was really no more disorderly than usual, even with Ianto's absence. But Ianto nodded his agreement; it was his duty after all. "Of course. And if I may, sir, the file you collected on Jean-Luc D'Aoust? It'd be a terrible thing if this child did in fact live and this information somehow escaped. I think it best if I destroyed it. To protect him."

Stopping in the doorway, Jack's grin was reminiscent of the cat who ate the canary -- full-toothed and full of incriminating feathers. "There's only the one file, dispose of it as you want. Oh, and Ianto?"

"Yes?"

"Don't face your ghosts until you're ready."

***

  
Ianto watched Jack leave his office, relieved he could destroy the information on Jean-Luc. He didn't think Jack would tell anyone; he seemed aware of the dangers of the situation, and even if he wasn't aware of who was doing the protecting, he had inferred a connection with Ianto. Ianto supposed that was partially true. His mother ran both operations, after all.

There was little to tidy in Jack's office. Ianto began with the scattered papers, filing some in their appropriate folders, putting others in the box for Jack signature when he returned. He didn't find Jack's stapler, but then, he couldn't remember Jack ever having a stapler. He was still straightening paper when he noticed something on Jack's desk, prominently featured, something that didn't belong. Definitely not a stapler.

Straightening slowly, Ianto reluctantly reached for the device -- only half, the other half must be in storage in Jack's safe with other devices that were never to be touched, but this half of the ghost machine was lying out in plain sight on Jack's desk. The desk he'd been told to organize.

With steady hands displaying a false calm, Ianto reached for the device. He knew how the device worked, how using half sent one into the past and connecting with heightened emotion. Despite his misgivings he pressed the machine; its hum rose in pitch, lurching him sideways as he spun back in time. Ianto squeezed his eyes shut; dreading what he would see when he opened them. Torchwood was associated with far too many emotions.

Myfanwy screeched above the shouts. Above his voice shouting. Ianto knew when he was even before he opened his eyes. Although desperate to tear himself away from reliving the past, he didn't know but not knowing how to stop the device once it was activated. He wasn't facing the lift, though, blocked from his sight. Instead, his eyes were on Jack, standing motionless in the office door, two hands on the device and eyes locked on the lift. On Ianto.

 _I understand, now. Wish I didn't. My own ghosts are enough to haunt my sleep without me becoming my own nightmare._

Jack knew.

God, Jack _knew_.

Ianto struggled with the device, willing it to turn itself off. He didn't want to watch, he didn't want to see how much Jack had seen, what he had felt, because Ianto could _feel_ Jack and the remorse pouring off him, feel the struggle with what was right for the world and and the knowledge of Ianto's devastation at the shattering of his own. Jack felt _human_ and lost and something indecipherable that Ianto didn't wish to understand -- a combination of age and time and loneliness, a loss so great it ripped through Ianto's defenses, an emptiness so frightening it ate at Ianto's soul. And Ianto knew that, more than anything, he wanted to keep the confidence in his boss. He wanted to know that when Jack made a decision, it was the correct one. He never wanted to feel Jack's doubt or hesitation. Or his sorrow.

He was no empath. Ianto was not meant to have this knowledge of others. Especially not of Jack.

His vision shifted again, air and time blurring before clarity returned. Ianto quickly dropped the device on Jack's desk, breathing heavily in an attempt to restore some measure of control.

Jack understood.

Quickly, his hands trembling, Ianto opened Jack's safe, removing the lock box that housed the other half of the device. The seal was broken; Jack hadn't even bothered to lock up the other half. He had known Ianto would have the other half to replace back in the safe. No sense repeating work.

Jack had set up Ianto.

Ianto resealed the box, sliding it into place between Suzie's glove and dagger and an artifact from Arietis, a tiny, innocuous blue-tinged device containing explosive powers far greater than anything possessed on Earth. Another thing best kept from the hands of Ms. White. Or anyone, for that matter.

Grabbing Jean-Luc's file, Ianto didn't bother restoring order to Jack's office. He knew that wasn't actually what Jack had requested. And Jack still didn't have a stapler. Pausing before he left, Ianto bent to pick up another rose petal -- this one on the floor, exactly where Jack had stood in the vision from the ghost machine.

They were still watching, though at this point, Ianto wasn't exactly sure who.

***  
An alarm sounded in the Hub -- not Tosh's rift alarm, but an alert for the emergency broadband, drawing Ianto's attention from the files he was sorting through. Owen had made a mess of them again, though Ianto could understand being unnerved by the Faeries. They were an unnerving lot. Still, it seemed as though Owen took pride in intentionally creating multicolored chaos within Ianto's carefully schemed system. How the man had made it through medical school was beyond Ianto's comprehension.

Though at university one typically didn't have to deal with Faeries.

Toshiko relayed the information to Jack while Ianto listened with half an ear. Gwen and Owen had left the Hub already; Gwen was still not speaking with Jack. He'd not realized until yesterday how much the team blamed Jack for making tough decisions; even Ianto had been guilty of it when it came to Lisa. Not that he entirely blamed Jack, not now. In fact, his decisions were correct. But Ianto couldn't shake the knowledge of Jack's self-recrimination and doubt, nor the image of the man, tears staining his face, watching and feeling as Ianto watched Myfanwy in horror, with no one even attempting to turn him away. Jack was fallible; he was human. Ianto hadn't wanted to know that. And he didn't want to know where else Jack had gone with the device. Given that it was Jack, he probably went to each location where Ianto and he had had an altercation, which meant he knew Ianto far more intimately than Ianto was comfortable with. Which was probably why Jack had left the device out for Ianto to find. It was an intrusion on a moment when the remains of Torchwood London had fallen.

It was an apology as two private people learned far more about the other, extending beyond the boundaries of casual shags and coffee.

"-place called _Lana's_."

Ianto's ears perked at the name of Lana's club, now curious about the alert and wishing he'd paid more attention to their conversation. As he listened, his stomach sunk to his feet, weighing him down until he couldn't move if he tried.

"Explosion...fire...doesn't appear alien-related."

Jack was standing over Toshiko's shoulder, but glanced up to search for Ianto. Ianto wasn't certain if Jack had meant to keep the information from him or had hoped Ianto overheard. Either way, Ianto knew, and there was no stopping him from leaving. The only question that remained was whether Torchwood would go with him. "Would you like me to bring around the car, sir? Rarely does anything happen in Cardiff that isn't Torchwood-related."

"Ianto's right. Tosh, I need you to find out what information you can about the business and what happened. Ianto, get the car. It's about time you got some field experience."

Ianto rushed away from the others, barely out of hearing distance before he opened his mobile, talking as he ran. "Do you know anything?"

"Course I do. What topic?"

"There's been an explosion at Lana's. What the fuck is going on?" Ianto threw himself into the driver's seat, the starting engine threatening briefly to drown out Jean-Luc's voice. There was moment's silence on the other end of the line, giving Ianto the chance to pull around for Jack, his fingers tapping impatiently on the wheel.  
   
"Merde.  I can't sense her. Where are you?"

"I'm on my way. Jean-Luc..." Ianto heard the passenger door open, didn't look to see who it was; he knew it was Jack. He heard the door close and glanced over, making sure Jack was fully in the SUV before speeding away from the Hub, glad Jack hadn't argued with him about who drove. Not that Ianto would get there any faster than Jack would have, but it at least gave him a feeling that he was doing something to help, moving towards something even if he was doing nothing.

"She's not dead."

"Neither was Lisa and that ended well."

"Ianto-"

He didn't wait to hear what Jean-Luc had to say, just snapped his phone shut and threw it into the console between the front seats. With both hands on the steering wheel, Ianto could take corners sharper, drive faster, scowling at the night like it was personally responsible.

Perhaps it was.

"Lana's one of them. Like Jean-Luc. And the little girl who healed you."

It wasn't a question, and Ianto couldn't think of how to answer Jack without speaking of Avalon, without blurting out his fear for Lana, his confusion, his concern for Jean-Luc and the rest of them. So he remained silent, taking another sharp corner at far too great a speed. He could already see a glow in the night sky, forcing the skyline into shadowed relief. It was haunting, and Ianto thought it vaguely familiar, only a different silhouette.

Kind of reminded him of looking over his shoulder as he fled Torchwood One.

Ianto nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a touch on his thigh. The light touch turned into a comforting squeeze, reassuring him as they neared Lana's. This was the second time since his return that Jack had caught him off guard like this. The first time Ianto had to physically shake himself from his stare at Jack's hand on his shoulder. That had been before the faeries, before Jack had fallen into a dark mood with a glass of whisky, but it had emboldened Ianto enough to casually ask if everything was okay. When Jack had replied that he had loved before, Ianto had joined him for a drink; they hadn't spoken a single word, but the drink had been good.

He had found another rose petal in his glass the following morning.

Ianto looked quickly at Jack and, despite the situation, returned his cautious smile. The hand remained on his thigh until they arrived at what had been _Lana's_ , using Torchwood credentials to bully their way in. A great burning hulk of a building remained where the club had once stood proudly, planks of wood and glass littering the street. The force of the explosion had turned the windows into jagged, craggle-toothed smiles, the frames bent outward or gone completely.  And behind the eyes into the club, the fires raged.   
   
Ianto didn't waste any time getting out of the vehicle, first calling for Lana, then searching for someone in charge among all the emergency personnel surrounding the building when his calls went unanswered. Though he questioned as many as he could stop long enough to question, none had seen a victim matching Lana's description. In fact, there seemed to be relatively few victims at all.  Jack's face matched Ianto's concern; it was a Thursday night and the place should have been packed with people.  Even if Jack wasn't a regular at _Lana's_ , he had seen enough to know that a handful of people did not account for even a quarter of the club goers.  
   
They wandered from gurney to gurney, searching for anyone with answers as they awaited transport to Cardiff General.  But they all were too badly injured for questioning; some probably would never wake again.  Ianto felt himself despairing more and more what had happened to Lana; he remembered what Jean-Luc had said about the kid from Norway.  But he had been Guardian protected.  Lana had graduated.  She was off on her own and no longer connected with Avalon.  But her place still burned, and she was missing.

"I know you."

The voice was quiet, rasping, the sounds of burnt lung tissue from inhaling heated smoke and ash. Ianto stopped, looking first at the blackened hand clutching his, swallowing once to contain his reaction to one of the fire's victims. How the man was still conscious (or alive), Ianto wasn't sure. His burns were severe, flesh black and bleeding. A few injuries looked to be related to falling debris; a quick glance at the medic confirmed Ianto's fears for his survival. Jack stopped as well, standing beside Ianto and the gurney as the medic signalled the investigators that a survivor was conscious.

"Caleb." Ianto spoke with affection, touching the man's cheek, one of the few areas not ravaged by fire. Caleb Porter, Grade 4 Clairvoyant. He was much younger than Ianto, graduating from Avalon just last year. Extremely shy and withdrawn, but with amazing singing voice -- a strong tenor. Caleb loved musicals; he had wanted to audition for _Wicked_ once he had received all his training. God, he was just a kid.   What was he doing at _Lana's_?

"They took 'em all."

"Who took them?" Ianto leaned forward, trying to hear around the sounds of the fire and sirens and the oxygen mask partially covering Caleb's face. "Who did this, Caleb?"

For a moment, Caleb didn't respond, simply staring at Ianto with wide green eyes crying blood-red, his long brown curls gone with the heat and flame. His lips moved a few times, but no sound emerged. Then his body stiffened and the green eyes become unnaturally bright. Ianto jerked his hand away from Caleb's cheek. Touching a clairvoyant was forbidden; everyone who had ever stepped foot into Avalon was aware of what a violation it was. Prescience was not just smoke and crystal balls, random spontaneous moments of prophecy. Rather, it required intense focus on a subject, on a time, on a place. It wasn't random, and touching an individual during their focus could skew the prophecy, altering it to the pattern of the one who had interrupted. But Caleb's hand grasped Ianto's wrist, pulling himself up from the bed despite his injuries. A dark, rich voice poured from his lips seemingly unhindered by the superheated air, sounding nothing like the bright voice Ianto knew he otherwise possessed.

"Help us!"

Caleb collapsed backwards, releasing Ianto as the portable monitors wailed in alarm. Medics pushed Ianto out of the way; only then did Ianto notice Jack's hand on his back, stabilizing him. The walls of _Lana's_ crashed behind them, shooting cinder and sparks into the air as hot smoke billowed out and the flames fed upon themselves. It was difficult to breathe through the smoke and heat, but Ianto couldn't move, stunned into silence as he watched the medics swarm on Caleb. He'd heard those sounds before; he'd smelled that smell.

And then it began to rain.

Tilting his face into the rain for just a moment, Ianto breathed the cool, pure air as the fire hissed and sizzled behind him. Finally he moved, taking a deep breath to center himself. He felt nothing but anger for those who had taken Lana and the others, leaving the victims of the blaze to die. But there was nothing more he could accomplish at the scene. He had to phone Jean-Luc and tell him of the news and what Caleb had said...and of Caleb. "Sir, we might as well go back to the Hub."

Jack had spoken only a few words the entire time, and he didn't say more now, but their earlier awkwardness had melted away into a familiar understanding. There were no questions, no interrogations as to how Ianto knew Caleb or what had just happened. He didn't remove his hand from Ianto's back either. And in the rain, standing amidst the burning club and the ghosts of the missing, Ianto could pretend that was all that mattered.

He had been forgiven, if at an extremely high cost.

***

  
Ianto glanced at his mobile vibrating with a hum on top of the Information Desk. He recognized the number, momentarily taken aback that she would ring during the day when he was at work. Although, it was Saturday. Ianto supposed that some people actually took days off.

With a quick look around, certain that he was still as alone as he had been, Ianto picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Mr. Jones, have I failed to clearly communicate the terms of your transfer to Cardiff?"

Ah, his reports. He'd failed to submit the last two. One had been due while he was recuperating at his flat. The latest he'd neglected due to lack of anything interesting, outside of regaining his place within Torchwood Three and matters concerning Avalon. One weevil sighting that week. It was nothing to write home about.

Or to fill a report.

"No, you have not." Mindful of the cameras, audio or not, Ianto carefully chose his words for fear of someone lip-reading the video. "I believe meat is important and without meat, you'll have a tasteless pie."

"Don't get coy with me. I have half a mind to reassign you to London."

The door to the Information Center opened and two elderly women entered. He'd have to speak with them in a moment, but he couldn't exactly tell Ms. White to bugger off. "I'm not sure where you got your recipe, but mine does not require watercress. Far too peppery for the dish. Wouldn't complement the other ingredients at all. Best leave it alone for now."

"Ianto Jones, don't take that tone of voice with me."

And suddenly, Ianto felt twelve again. He waved at the two women with an apologetic smile, not bothering to cover the receiver on the mobile, "I'm sorry ladies, I'll be with you in a moment. I've got someone on the phone who's trying to convince me that I need to change how I make my shepherds pie."

The women nodded with wisdom garnered from eighty-odd years experience each; Ianto assumed he'd be receiving tips from them as well.

"I trust you're finding some amusement in our conversation."

"Absolutely not." Ianto pointed to a brochure about a castle tour with accommodations perfect for the two women browsing the Information Center. "I can't give you my recipe; there's nothing to write down."

"Ianto...I assume you've heard about Caleb? And Lana and the others?"

This made Ianto pause, missing one of the women's questions as to garden walks. "I was there."

  
There was silence, heavy and poignant as Ianto heard his mother's quiet breathing on the other end. "Be careful, son."

The line went dead, and Ianto was left staring at his phone in confusion. He had nothing to do with Avalon. There was no danger to him -- it was Avalon and those it protected that were of concern.  
   
And Ms. White never called Ianto her son.

The two women saw that Ianto's conversation was finished and hurried over, each offering their recipe for shepherds pie.

***

  
Ianto had waited, as Jack had recommended, until he was ready to revisit the past before venturing down into the lowest level where he had once hid his betrayal. He thought he was ready -- had even made it to the doors without incident -- but now that the doors were in front of him, he felt his courage slowly taper until he could do no more than stand against the opposite wall and stare, hands in his trouser pockets.

Maybe he wasn't ready to take on this particular demon.

His mother hadn't phoned again and Jean-Luc had only phoned once since Lana went missing. Caleb had died on the way to the Cardiff General; his body had been too severely damaged for Rani to heal, even if she'd had the chance. From what Jean-Luc had said, Avalon was withdrawing in on itself, isolating to protect the students and those who sought safety within its walls. Ianto wished he could help, but Jean-Luc and the others were far more capable of defending Avalon than he. He would only get in the way and be one more person to protect.

So he stayed in Cardiff, at Torchwood, worrying about the trivial and the day-to-day.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor and Ianto turned his head just enough to see who was coming to interrupt this moment of cowardice.

'Oi! Ianto. Thought I saw you come down here."

Ianto believed he would have preferred a Dalek. "Owen."

Owen paused in front of Ianto, looking back and forth from the door to Ianto like the additional movements might help him more quickly calculate the situation. Without hesitation, Owen turned from Ianto and threw open the doors.

Apparently he had correctly added up the details.

"Jack disassembled the unit. Don't know what he did with the parts and don't bloody care so long as it's rubbish that will never be repaired. He had no part in the autopsies, though. Never even touched them. Can't say how long it took me to get the bodies to the vault by myself."

Ianto was moderately surprised that Owen had taken the time and the consideration. His gaze remained on the empty room, looking sterile and bare in the dim lighting. There was nothing left in the room, not a trace. Not even the floor held a spot, despite Ianto's memories insisting that the blood had permanently stained the stone.

"Amberlynn Crone and Mitch Simms. Went to university with them, then did our surgical training, then all three of us were recruited by Torchwood. I got this draw, they got London."  
   
Ianto knew how this story ended. They weren't among the survivors.

"I worked on the cleanup afterwards. I saw what had happened. I guess I figured that since you'd survived, you just gave up on the lot of 'em and ran. Figured you didn't try to save them." Owen scanned the empty room, and Ianto knew he was picturing the still functioning conversion unit that had filled the room. "Then I saw this, and I knew you wouldn't have stopped long as there was anything still left to save."

Speechless, Ianto stared at Owen, standing guard with his hands in his pockets and scrutinizing Ianto with a clinical eye. He was looking for cracks, Ianto knew, looking for a seam signalling that Ianto wasn't as prepared as he thought he was to enter the room. Ianto honestly didn't think Owen would allow him to enter if he thought otherwise. For a man with absolutely no observable interpersonal skills, Owen could be remarkably perceptive. That was scary enough, but when the earlier assertions were added, this was a picture of Owen that Ianto would never have believed possible.

With a nod to Owen, in thanks or respect or whatever the nod might indicate (with Owen it was too difficult to determine), Ianto stepped away from the bracing wall. He stopped before he entered the room, however, turning back to Owen who was still watching him. He probably had a dose of sedative in his pocket for all Ianto knew. But he was curious; he had to know.

"Why?" At Owen's puzzled look, Ianto clarified. "Why all this. Why did you help?"

Owen shrugged, shifting on his feet until he decided on an answer. "I owed you." And then he promptly turned and retreated back down the hallway, leaving Ianto alone with the room.  
   
***

  
Cardiff was stunning from the top of the Wales Millennium Centre, Ianto decided after standing there for an hour, braced against the wind. It was cool, chilly almost, but he could still feel the heat from the remaining sunlight reflecting off the steel plates. Soon his suit jacket, the only spare articles of clothing he'd kept at the Hub, would not lend enough warmth and he would be forced to leave the rooftop.

His face hurt, his neck hurt, his head hurt ... pretty much his entire body hurt. He felt like he'd just lost a rugby match to opponents carrying mallets. Owen had ordered him to go home with strict instructions to watch for symptoms of a concussion or infection, but Ianto hadn't listened. He'd finished his paperwork, carefully writing up the details of the team's encounter with Brecon Beacons' cannibals, although it was an incident he'd much sooner forget. If there was any time he needed _Lana's_ it was now, but since that was no longer an option, and he hadn't the heart to find a new club, he figured he'd try Jack's escape.

Ianto heard Jack before he saw him. His shoes softly clicked on the metal plates until Jack stood beside him, his grey coat billowing in the wind as though even the wind was Jack's mistress. Ianto smiled as he felt the wool whip and curl behind him, clipping the back of his legs on occasion as the wind spun. The wool coat brought up memories tinged with sadness, and Ianto let them flow through him as quickly as they'd come.

No sense dwelling. Jean-Luc had promised to find her. Ianto didn't doubt that he would.

Ianto broke the silence first. They could have stood for hours shoulder to shoulder with not a word spoken between them, but he felt the need to explain his encroachment into Jack's territory. "It worked for you, so I thought I'd try."

Jack's laughter was swallowed by the wind, muffled and muted before it reached Ianto's ears. "Is it working?"

He looked out over the Bay, preferring the vast waters to the sights of the city proper, and carefully considered the question. With such a view of the world, Ianto felt small, insignificant. Just a spec atop a shiny Armadillo. It wasn't exactly reassuring. At the same time, he was looking out over a city and a world he helped to protect. That was comforting. When balanced, combined with the irrational fear of losing his footing and slipping off the edge of the building to fall to his death (after emitting some rather humiliating screams), Ianto had his answer. "Not really."

Quiet settled between them again as night cast its first shadow over the city. Watercolor layers blanketed the Bay, slowly darkening the water as the sun surrendered its spot in the heavens to the moon. It was peaceful, if one didn't consider the long drop to the ground should one slip and tumble.

Jack broke the silence at last. "I come up here to remind myself that there's a world outside Torchwood. There's an entire population with no clue about the threats Earth faces -- no concept of space-time, or alien races, or tech so foreign it boggles the mind." Despite the roar of the wind, Ianto heard the resolve in his voice. "It reminds me that it's my duty to make sure they're safe."

Jack's answer fit Ianto's perception of him. He wondered whether he would ever be able to apply the same universal concern to his own sense of duty. He knew there was a bigger picture out there, but he struggled to see beyond his immediate concerns. Perhaps it would come with age, or perhaps, like Ianto favored, it was just another unknown in the vast mystery of Captain Jack Harkness.

"Is it working?" Ianto quoted back, smiling at the sound of Jack's surprised laughter.

"The 21st century is when it all changes, Ianto Jones. And we've got to be ready."

Ianto had heard that line before, and often wondered what Jack meant. It also begged the question of why he said it and how he knew. For all Ianto knew of Jack, he didn't believe Jack to be one who dabbled in the art of fortune telling. Feeling brazen, whether from the height or the head wound Ianto wasn't sure, but he didn't hesitate in asking the first question which came to mind. "Ready for what?"

Silence stretched, longer than before and far more uncomfortable. Even the wind seemed to note the change, dropping the swirls so Jack's coat no longer flowed in the breeze. Ianto hadn't considered that the question would be that difficult to answer; a simple "I'm not telling" would work just as well as a proper answer.

"I don't remember.

Turning in surprise, Ianto tried to establish whether his boss was being deliberately difficult or if he was serious. From the look on his face, Ianto guessed that Jack was being entirely serious. "That's unfortunate," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "It would've helped me plan my holidays."

"Planning to stay away?"

"No, planning on being here. Who else would make coffee and order takeaway for you helpless lot?" Jack's answering grin was worth the self-deprecation, though Ianto was fairly certain Jack didn't think of him merely as the teaboy. Ianto hoped, at any rate. With the conversation taking a lighter turn, Ianto broached the subject that had driven him up to the Millennium Centre's rooftop. "Sir, if you don't mind, I would like to be removed from field duty."

Jack's eyes narrowed, taking in Ianto's injuries, but those weren't the cause. Ianto could handle injury. That wasn't the point in question. It was what he had seen. "I panicked today. Tosh ... Tosh was brilliant. Ready and eager for the action. Walking through the village with my gun drawn ... all I could see was London. And then the plastic sheeting ... you don't want me out there, sir. I don't get any thrill from the danger, and I'm a threat to the team. I'm best serving the coffee."

"Ianto, you saved Tosh's life. Panicked or not, you kept your wits and bought enough time for rescue at the risk of your life." He paused, then added slowly, "It's your choice, but given the option, I'd like to have you out there with us when we need you."

"But-"

"That doesn't mean I want you coming back looking like you've met the wrong end of a Draconian stick fight. Or that I want you to get a thrill from the danger. You know this isn't a game. I need that a lot more than I need thrill. You've seen just how far mankind can fall. You understand."

Taking a moment to consider Jack's words before he protested too vehemently, Ianto crossed his arms over his chest. The sun had finally sunk below the horizon and the air was taking on night's chill -- or at least that was his excuse for such a defensive measure. He had certainly seen his fair share in life, though others had seen worse or similar. To say he understood was true to an extent, but the knowledge wasn't a comfort. It simply meant that Torchwood had warped him more than the others. "I suppose."

"How long have you been having flashbacks?"

He tried to remember a time when he hadn't. Ianto wouldn't categorically define them as flashbacks, though some moments in the village had been very difficult to distinguish from London. Sometimes he saw Torchwood Tower in the flickers of a fire. Once it had been a woman's scream on the telly. But they were hardly something he was concerned about, and they had been growing fewer with time. Truth be told, Lisa's death had helped him separate from that life and the violence of those memories. But he would never admit that, not to anyone. "Since the Battle," Ianto said with a shrug, refusing to maintain eye contact for even that small admission.

"Didn't they set you up with one of the Torchwood counselors?"

Ianto snorted, an inelegant and unrefined sound but he couldn't stop himself. "None survived from that department, sir."

Jack snickered, apparently following Ianto's line of thought. "Who'd they try to reason with? The Daleks or the Cybermen?"

"As I understand it, the Cybermen."

Dark humor filled Jack's laughter, pulling Ianto into it without any real protest. It felt unnatural, laughter did, especially when his nephews weren't the source. But it felt good, standing and laughing so high above the ground that the wind whipped over his skin, chasing away any lingering demons and sorrow.

It did not go unnoticed. "That's the first time I've heard you laugh."

"Sorry, sir. It's the head injury to blame. It won't happen again."

"That's a tragedy. Laughter looks nearly as good on you as your suit."

"Careful, sir, that's harassment." Ianto rolled his eyes at Jack's comments, but he smiled all the same, enjoying a return to their typical banter. He could feel Jack gearing up for another comment, the air growing thick with both hesitation and anticipation. Hopefully it wasn't anything about the Battle. Or Lisa. Or Lana. Or the Brecon Beacons. He'd already discussed far more than he usually discussed with anyone and the state of his mental health was something he certainly did not enjoy discussing.

"You lied today."

"I'm sorry?"

"You lied about your last kiss."

"As I recall, sir..." Ianto tugged at the elbow of his suit jacket, casting a sideways glance at Jack. They'd yet to discuss the moment, a moment Ianto only remembered because of Jean-Luc. He'd been too disoriented, too confused when it had occurred to properly analyze it. "You're the one who evaded the question. I didn't lie. When you kissed me, I believe I was dead."

"The lengths I had to go to to finally kiss you. How much do you remember?"

"Enough to know your tongue was involved. Really, sir, that was a bit inappropriate."

"Jack."

"Sorry?" Ianto looked up to find Jack stepping closer, breaking the lines of personal space to as he tugged Ianto by his jacket lapel. Ianto's feet felt like stone, pitching him forward until there was little space between them for the wind to howl through.

"I'm going to kiss you now, while you're alive, and I'd prefer it if you'd call me Jack."

"Oh," was the most intelligent response Ianto could gather as Jack's hand slipped behind his neck. Ianto was pulled closer until he could feel Jack's breath ghosting his lips. He'd expected immediate contact and was surprised when there was nothing, just the chilled wind warmed slightly by Jack's steady exhale. Ianto opened his eyes, unsure when he'd closed them, but he opened them to see the curve of Jack's lips, the wide smile. Confused, Ianto raised his eyes to focus on Jack's, difficult as it was with his head aching, leaning away slightly when his eyes refused to focus properly at the close distance. "Jack?"

That had been the answer to whatever question Jack had not asked. Their lips met with a gentleness Ianto had not expected, gracing over with a light pressure to sample, taste what was to come. Jack's lips were soft, softer than Ianto remembered in his fleeting memory. It was teasing, it was breathtaking. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed. Years, it felt like. Before the Battle. The wind's fingers wrapped Jack's coat around Ianto, refusing to let him slip back into the past. At the same time Jack ran a careful hand over Ianto's jawline, down his throat, tracing the line where the blade had pressed too hard as if he was afraid Ianto would break at a stronger touch. Annoyed with the assumption, Ianto pulled Jack flush against his body, ignoring the twinge of protest from his sore ribs that maybe supported Jack's assumption.

But Ianto wouldn't break. A kiss wouldn't break him. After Lisa, it might have. It had felt like betrayal then, too intimate for his casual encounters. It might still be too intimate, might still be casual, but it wouldn't break him. He made that point emphatically, cradling Jack's face in his steady hands and deepening the kiss. He felt the play of Jack's jaw as Ianto mapped and tasted, giving as Ianto pushed, pushing when Ianto lightened. Ianto's fingers dipped and felt Jack's pulse race. A moan was tickled from his throat when their hips shifted and Ianto's cock brushed over Jack's. If he wasn't extremely careful, Ianto knew this wouldn't last long, but he couldn't stop the desire to be touched once the sensations began. He was hyper-aware of physical contact -- he could feel every point where Jack's body touched his. The tops of their thighs ... a bit of knee ... hips slowly grinding against the other ... stomach, chest ... a tiny point on Ianto's elbow where it rested on top of Jack's arm ... their lips. God, he could come just from the kissing...

Jack seemed to sense this as well, pushing away enough to shrug his heavy coat from his shoulders and throw it on the rooftop. Ianto wanted to comment on his gentlemen-like behavior, but the thought slipped his mind as Jack toppled him (carefully) to the coat, both of them ending up in a heap of limbs and clothing. Thinking was abandoned entirely in their mad scramble, their hands distracted and fumbling for buckles and zippers, Ianto forgetting his bruises as his lips sought Jack's. It seemed to take far longer than it should for Ianto to manage Jack's zipper and reach his hand into that warmth inside. Jack's erection rose up to meet his hand, as if buoyed from the lesser gravity at this height, though Ianto confirmed its mass as his fingers stretched around its width. Jack groaned, a husky sound that was whipped away on the wind so quickly that only the vibrations against Ianto's jaw convinced him it was there. Jack's hands pushed down his trousers, exposing him to air so cold Ianto feared he would shrivel away, but his surprised gasp just made Jack snicker against his skin. He shouldn't have been worried; Jack's hand burned with a heat that seemed to reach inside Ianto, chasing away the chill he'd felt ever since leaving Brecon Beacons. Friction warmed him even more, his hand meeting Jack's rhythm, then pushing it faster, then slowing without warning.

When his hand next slowed, Jack's hips thrust so hard into Ianto's hand that they were nearly propelled from their rooftop perch. Without losing his hold on Ianto, Jack's long fingers slipped to his own shaft and squeezed them together. Ianto could almost hear the click as their erections aligned, smooth as the cartridge in the chamber of a gun. Locked and loaded. He wrapped his hand around Jack's and moved with him. Faster and faster, their fingers interlaced, the wind spurring them on, and every thought forgotten save the need for release, Ianto let loose a very human-sounding cry as jets of pearly cum pulsed across his hand.

Jack came a second later, pressing his nose so fiercely against Ianto's throat that the younger man could hardly breathe. Ianto completely forgot about the cold air as he lay gasping, Jack still smothering him. He was vaguely aware that neither of their shirts were suitable for public viewing anymore. In the dim recesses of his mind he also remembered that they were on the rooftop of a very public building. And when Jack slid off him, Ianto was acutely aware of the chill where his body had been, and wondered if he should make a move to follow his boss down. But at the moment, he couldn't be bothered. He looked up at the stars, at the galaxies above, full of their alien races and tech that boggled the mind, and then let his eyes drift shut...

They opened abruptly when Ianto felt the brush of wool tickle his chin. He looked up to see Jack carefully tucking his coat around him to ward off the cold. Jack smiled, looking surprised to see him awake. "Is it working now?"

Ianto nodded, stretching lazily within Jack's coat. "Yes, sir ... Jack. I think it is."


	4. The Smell of Black Currants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely touches episode 7.

Ianto listened to the team while he picked up the remains of the day. They were in the lounge area, talking and laughing loudly -- Tosh the loudest of them all. Four days had passed since Mary had been sent to visit Sol, and now Gwen and Owen had taken it upon themselves to draw her out -- via unadulturated alcohol, it would seem. They'd been laughing for an hour now, the sound echoing off the Hub's walls and carrying throughout the base as Jack filled the silence with another jovial anecdote from his past, though if he ever stopped to consider the sheer number of years it would have taken to perform said stories, he might have refrained. Ianto had tallied them up, all the stories, the travels; he believed Jack was far older than even Torchwood thought. And most certainly didn't originate from this century, not with the current limits of space travel.

"Ianto! Come join us!"

Realizing he'd been spotted and lacked a decent excuse to feed Gwen, Ianto made his way towards the landing, depositing the bag of rubbish on Owen's chair as he passed by. He'd remember it later, and if he didn't, Owen would eloquently remind him in the morning. There wasn't nearly enough seating -- Gwen and Tosh sat together on the couch and Owen and Jack sat in office chairs, looking equally amused.

Ianto knew he shouldn't have worried, however. Worrying led to situations one didn't expect because life never played as it ought.

The moment he set foot in the lounge area behind the desks, he had an arm full of inebriated Toshiko, which was definitely not what he had expected. He had pictured gracefully sitting on the arm of the sofa near Tosh, maintaining a relative casual indifference to the conversation while displaying his quiet support. Tosh had other notions, however, which included wrapping him in a tight hug that was slowly driving the air out of him. He was familiar with the action, having sat with Elaine for countless hours, which made his response easier, returning the hug with a warmth he hoped Tosh could feel.

"My sad Ianto. We need to get you a drink. They're all conspiring to get me drunk, I think. You need to join me!"  
   
Elaine had gotten drunk, too. Jean-Luc hadn't permitted him to drink. Bastard.

He guided Tosh back to the couch, ignoring the others, focusing on Tosh since she was the reason he'd joined the soiree. She believed him sad, and he supposed he was, but not entirely in the sense that she believed him to be. He'd felt the awareness and probing long before they'd learned of Mary, and embellished memories in his public mind were no difficult task. (Rule one in psychic training: never let them see you lie. Numbers two through ten had been forgettable mumbo-jumbo that made no sense given how Jean-Luc had trained him, but rule one had merit in any situation.) He'd informed Jack, of course, who was as confused as Ianto as to who was responsible. But when Ianto had discovered the police report, the pieces had fallen quickly into place.

But not quick enough to save Tosh the heartbreak. Ianto understood the intimacy with a connection like Mary and Tosh's.

Ianto sat on the couch and Tosh followed, curling up beside him (just like Elaine). This was easy. The following morning would be difficult, at least for Tosh. "You seem to be doing fine with your bottle of ... apple vodka?" Ianto glanced up at Owen who looked at Gwen who shrugged. They could have at least provided her a mixer. Or something more palatable. Trust Gwen and Owen to give her something which would leave her feeling ill.

"Tastes like candy."

"It won't tomorrow."

Jack just looked for all intent and purpose amused. He would be; he was drinking water.

Gwen turned towards Ianto and Tosh, her expression reading far too 'look, how adorable!' for Ianto's liking. The concept of love, death, and comfort seemed to escape them all. Hopefully they would never learn it. "So Ianto, we were sharing stories. Jack's currently got the best story for most outrageous public sex-"

"In front of a bunch of nuns! And a foreign dignitary!" Tosh nearly spilled out of the couch reaching for her drink, but Ianto saved her, his longer arms easily reaching the table.

"His skills in diplomacy are astounding."

"Yes, well..." Gwen hinted as Jack laughed, encouraging Ianto to continue. He didn't; rather, he settled Tosh back against the couch once she had drunk the remains of her glass. Her tastebuds must have been shot by that point, she didn't even hesitate. Owen moved to pour more vodka into the glass, but Ianto's glare and throat-clearing had him backing away. She was drunk enough, she didn't need to be sick.

Gwen never lost sight of an objective, it would appear. "Ianto? So what's your most outrageous story?"

He didn't look at Jack, fearing he'd somehow give himself away. Ianto knew that his answer was on top of the Millennium Centre. He never doubted it. He wasn't one for public affairs; quick shags in a loo were a bit different. And he would not share that story with the rest of the team. No matter what, if anything, it had meant to Jack, no matter what it meant to himself, it was too...personal...to share, and he really didn't have any stories beyond that. But he wouldn't lie. "I prefer to maintain my privacy. There are no CCTV cameras in that location and I'd rather it stay that way."

Owen yelled "Bollocks!" and Gwen was convinced Ianto had a new girlfriend. Tosh looked up with sad (intoxicated) eyes from his chest, which had become her pillow, and gave his sides a squeeze -- obviously thinking he was referencing Lisa based on what she had heard in his public thoughts. Only Jack did nothing, said nothing, just watched while Ianto silently rubbed Tosh's shoulder.

***

  
Ianto watched as Gwen, Owen, and Tosh trailed out of the Hub. Actually, it was more Gwen and Owen carrying Tosh out of the Hub -- she didn't even protest. He hoped Tosh wouldn't wake up in the morning with too great a hangover; he made a mental note to have aspirin ready for her in the morning. No point in her suffering through the day. At least it appeared that she'd had a good time -- she had smiled.

Sometimes, that was the best one could ask for.

As he finished picking up the glasses and the nearly-empty bottle of vodka, Ianto caught sight of Jack in his office. He felt a bit guilty; it wasn't too often that their job was finished before morning, much less six o'clock in the evening. "Would you like me to phone for takeaway, sir?"

Jack leaned in the doorway of his office, arms crossed, watching Ianto. "Ianto, the next time you call me sir you'll be wearing a collar with a chain attached to my wrist. Until then, it's Jack."

Ianto's eyes opened fractionally, unable to not be shocked by what Jack had just said. Though it wasn't anything new, it still caught him off guard. He collected himself quickly, picking up the remaining rubbish with a casual, practiced ease. "The last time someone said that to me they had to have the collar removed by a medic with forceps, _Jack_."

"Uncomfortable."

Nodding at Jack's beaming grin, Ianto held up his phone, "I would imagine. Takeaway?"

Jack didn't even bother hiding his grimace. So the weeks of Chinese and Indian the food were beginning to take their toll. With Jubilee's they'd had a bit more variety, but for the time he couldn't bring himself to even consider ordering from there. Or pizza in general. Some day.

"Nope, We're going to dinner."

Not that Ianto had anything against dinner; he actually was just considering picking something up on the way to his flat. But Jack willingly stepping out of the Hub for non-Torchwood related activities? It must be the end of the world. Or the second coming. Or the apocalypse. Something in the water? "Jack?"

  
"What?" Jack asked as he exited his office, slipping on his coat. So he was serious about leaving the Hub. "You have plans for the evening?"

"No, but-"

"Good. I hate eating alone."

Jack turned and walked away before Ianto could think of a response in support or protest, much less vocalize it. He grabbed the suit jacket he'd draped over the railing to follow Jack, but stopped as soon as he realized where Jack was heading. "Ah ... my keys are up in the Information Center. I'll meet you topside?"

"Don't be ridiculous -- you don't need your keys. You've got me. Besides," Jack glanced upward at the point in the ceiling, which retracted to allow the passengers on the lift through to the pavement in the Plass, "this place is just steps from this lift."

The captain was a devious, conniving, evil, arrogant and ... insane undying son of a bitch in period military ... and who the hell wore period military these days? Ianto closed his eyes as he stepped onto the platform, cycling through the number of ways he could get his revenge on him. Ianto had access to all places in the Hub; it wouldn't be difficult. Jack was a vain man and Ianto knew of a few chemicals perfect for hair removal. Or green teeth. Or....

Ianto felt the wool of Jack's coat beneath his fingers, clutching it like a lifeline as the platform made its way up through the levels of the Hub. He hadn't meant to grab it; he wasn't quite sure when he had. But it was in his hand now, and he wasn't letting go, no matter how much Ianto wished to. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Jack was right -- Ianto didn't. Not exactly. That didn't mean Ianto opened his eyes until the lift stopped, nor did it mean he spoke a word as he stepped off the lift or that his knees weren't just a bit shaky. Like pizza, there were a few things that Ianto didn't do anymore. Taking the lift to the Plass was apparently being removed from that list whether Ianto had any say or not.  
   
Revenge was still an option, however.

"I'd watch your coffee for the next week, Jack."

***

  
"Any news on Lana?"

Dinner was finished and the plates were cleared, the last crust of bread eaten, and only smudges of wine rested in the bottoms of their glasses. Ianto had to admit, the food was better than takeaway, and the company had been better than his telly. Conversation had scattered across topics, mostly amusing, Jack regaling stories so extreme Ianto wondered if they were even true and who exactly he was trying to impress. Ianto had swallowed them all with a glass (or two) of wine, carefully deflecting personal questions while he encouraged Jack to speak about himself. Not that Jack shared anything personal either; it seemed both of them were adept in redirection. But where Ianto avoided by saying nothing, Jack avoided by saying everything about nothing. It was a good combination for dinner -- the conversation never lagged and it was far from boring.

In fact, Ianto had laughed, the sound slipping past his lips after a particular tale involving Jack, fish paste, and Ms. White's coffee. Jack's answering grin measured an 8.9 on the Jack scale of smiles, brilliant and disarming and attracting quite a few interested looks from the surrounding tables, men and women alike. Oddly enough for Jack, he ignored them, surprising Ianto. Jack had tried hard after that to get Ianto to laugh again; Ianto noticed, he wasn't entirely devoid of perception, and occasionally Jack succeeded. Turnabout was fair play, and Ianto had actually gotten Jack to inhale a sip of wine while remarking on Owen's uncanny resemblance to a monkey, which could explain the doctor on an evolutionary scale.

After Jack had regained his breath, he questioned Ianto regarding Owen. Simple, but straight to the point. Not that Owen's treatment of Ianto was excusable, but Ianto could sympathize on a level. Torchwood had touched Owen, just as it had touched them all. He was still a twat who played dangerous games but ... he was part of the team. And as Ianto was beginning to understand, no matter how fucked up he might be, Torchwood Three stood by each other. Even Owen.

Talk had then returned to its light, Jack-filled stories. And now that they were waiting for their after-dinner coffee, it apparently was time to return to a more serious topic.

Lana.

Ianto hadn't heard from Jean-Luc in weeks, but he wasn't worried.  Jean-Luc had his hands full searching, and Ianto hardly expected contact until they were found.  He knew Avalon was working on it, he knew they wouldn't allow their own to be taken. That was the whole purpose of Avalon -- to protect the gifted. They had the people and the resources; they would find Lana and the others who had been at the club. But with each passing day hope dwindled, and Ianto was concerned they might never be found.

"No," Ianto answered sadly, smiling a polite smile at Tamsin, the waitress who had arrived to serve their coffee. She looked between he and Jack and knew she had interrupted something, seeming to put even more cheer into her talk than when Jack had commented on her eyes. They were a rather unusual shade, hazel, almost golden and framed by dark lashes. Ianto had agreed, they were lovely, and Tamsin had transformed from a tired waitress into a smiling, blushing woman. Jack seemed to have that effect on people. It was rather remarkable. Ianto figured he'd leave that out of his reports to Ms. White as well; there was no need to open a study on the effects of Jack's charisma and how it could be bottled to use in defense of Britain.

Jack took a sip of the coffee, directing his comment at Ianto. "Not as good as yours."

Tamsin took no offense, smiling knowingly as she nudged Jack's shoulder. "Found yourself a good one then, didn't you?"

Ianto nearly choked on his own coffee as Jack watched him over his coffee mug, the mug certainly hiding a smirk if Ianto knew anything about Jack. She thought they were on a date. A _date_. They weren't on a date. They were just having dinner together rather than eating alone. Denying it, though, would only draw attention, probably resulting in another knowing smile shared with Jack.

"I'm just lucky he'll have me -- coffee's not his only specialty."

Tamsin's laughter at Jack's coy wink rang all the way back to the kitchen, a melodious sound drawing Ianto's lips into a smile, despite the turn in conversation. After she deposited their bill on the table, he whispered, "She thinks we're dating."

"She's probably telling the staff of your remarkable abilities. They're going to be curious." Jack flipped open the bill and threw in a few notes; it didn't escape Ianto that they totalled his share of the meal as well.

"God, I can never come back."

***

  
Jack didn't head back immediately for the Hub; instead he meandered towards the Millennium Centre. They walked in silence, mostly, enjoying the cool night and the Torchwood-free moment. No alarms, no aliens, no danger, just a peaceful calm. Ianto wondered if this was what most people felt on a daily basis, and for that he was jealous To be able to enjoy the quiet and the peace and the blissful ignorance, well, that was a tempting life. But as tempting as it was, he couldn't bring himself to seriously consider it. Torchwood had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. Giving it up was simply not fathomable.

As they walked along the Plass, Ianto remembered the words spoken that night, spoken in fear and desperate obsession. He'd been a wreck, knowing he was leaving Lisa to her death, while at the same time hating himself for the relief that she wouldn't harm anyone else. He still couldn't believe he'd struck Jack, though at the time it had seemed a very wise action to take. They were all a bit broken at Torchwood Three, Ianto's fracture was just a bit more world-threatening. Once Torchwood One, always Torchwood One, it would seem. "I couldn't, you know."

"What, go back to the resturaunt?"

Ianto smiled at Jack's quip, staring at his feet as they walked. There was a concert being held in the Millennium Center that night; Ianto could faintly make out music. "No. I couldn't stand back and watch you die."

  
"Yes, you could."

The reply made Ianto draw up in confusion. "Sorry?" After all the time and the apologies, Jack's use of the ghost machine and their conversations, could Jack really think Ianto had meant what he said that night? Ianto felt he'd terribly misconstrued everything, and he hadn't meant to. He'd tried to maintain a distance of sorts.  Jack was Jack. And with Jack came the swooning and broken hearts when those who fell for his charm fell too hard. Ianto had kept himself away from that, he'd understood what _this_ was -- a quick shag here and there, a boss looking out for someone in his employ. But he had believed Jack thought better of him, that Jack might actually have considered him...well, maybe not a friend. But he was the closest thing Ianto had to one in Cardiff, as fucked up as their relationship might be.

Ianto had been terribly wrong.

He hadn't moved, hadn't been able to breathe in his shame for having so grossly misread Jack's intent. And he was still standing still when Jack approached him, looking as serious as Ianto had seen him.

"You might not have meant it exactly as you said it that night. But you know I can't die. If you had to, you would stand aside and watch because you knew you must."

Ianto was sickened by the thought. But if he did consider what Jack said, the other man was correct, and that was far easier to swallow than believing Jack had thought he would do it out of hatred or revenge. As great as his nightmares would be from making that choice, Ianto knew he would do it. He would stand aside. And watch until perhaps Jack's ability to come back no longer worked. It was devastating to think about, and left him feeling every bit as cold as those actions would be considered.

"I don't know that I could, if it were you."

He felt his head jerk in surprise, his eyes immediately seeking Jack, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, long coat swirling. The doors of the Millennium Center swung open, the ruckus of exiting patrons deafening in what had been quiet stillness, and yet all Ianto could do was stare at Jack. Jack was the one who saw the grand picture, the universal view, the one who knew the sacrifice and costs of the world they lived in and what it took to keep it safe and free. Jack, who believed Ianto capable of standing back if for the greater good.

It was Jack who had bought him dinner.

People were pouring out of the Center in their formal clothes, reviewing the concert and their neighbors' poor choice in fashion. But there was Jack, standing amidst them all, looking as honest as he ever had and perhaps a bit unsure. It surprised Ianto into moving, taking the two steps forward so Jack could hear him. "But you've stood back for others."

"None of them looked nearly as good in a suit."

Dark as the theme had become, Ianto smiled. A true Captain Jack Harkness response, and a nice deflection. It was ridiculous to consider Jack knowing the rules and the consequences of not following. It had to be hard; Ianto wasn't sure how long Jack had lived, but in all those years, across whatever time and space, he had to have loved. Loved and lost. Jack understood, better than Ianto.

But, perhaps Ianto hadn't misunderstood things as much as he believed he had.

Feeling brazen, despite the crowd, Ianto took another step forward and pulled Jack into a kiss. It wasn't much more than a press of lips, a tease, but even knowing they were two of hundreds and hidden from CCTV, Ianto still wasn't one to make a spectacle for a public audience. "Your place?" Ianto suggested, quite the inane question as they were a matter of meters from the Hub, but it felt the question to ask.

Jack laughed all the same, dragging Ianto with him as he ran towards the lift.

***

  
"Stop."

Jack froze with far more concern than was necessary. Ianto rolled his eyes; he had been as equal a participant in the race towards the Hub and then to the tiny bedroom as Jack. It wasn't like he was going to beg Jack off now. He took Jack's hands which had been working on removing Ianto's jacket and pushed them to his sides. In their quick times before, Ianto had rarely gotten to see Jack. In fact, he really wasn't certain what the man looked like beneath his clothes. Tonight he was going to take his time and enjoy. Which meant Jack had to stop with his participation, at least for the moment.

Ianto removed his jacket and threw it over the single chair in the room. He left the rest of his clothes on, wanting nothing to distract Jack, who looked confused but willing. The wool coat had been discarded long ago, making the slide of the braces easy and uncomplicated. Buttoned pale blue shirt, white tee, shoes, trousers, briefs, socks, everything was efficiently removed and thrown in a pile on the floor. Jack stood naked and unashamed in front of him, proud as ever and displaying his erection like Ianto would never see better. Which might be true in a relative sense, but Ianto wasn't going to comment as he let his eyes roam down Jack's body, down to his bare feet, and back up again.

Jack's vanity really wasn't misplaced, if not a bit strong at times, and neither was his confidence. He was lines and curves, a sculptor's dream. Strong arms and broad shoulders, tapering to narrow hips implying exercise but Ianto wasn't aware Jack ever ventured to a gym. Muscled thighs from far too much running while on the job, flowing into calves lined with use, down to feet that Ianto wouldn't call pretty, but then, there had to be an imperfection. Because there really wasn't; his legs were topped by a full arse and his back echoed the physical strength of the rest, though one thing stood out above the rest.

There were no scars.

He pushed Jack back until he tumbled onto the bed; Ianto toed off his shoes before joining. He didn't stop looking once he had straddled Jack's hips.  The position just gave him a closer inspection, a reason to touch. Ianto let his fingers drift over Jack's tanned skin, standing out dark against the white of Ianto's shirt -- another mystery given the climate of Cardiff. Maybe he tanned in one of those beds. Or maybe wherever he was from, an ever-present tan was natural. Ianto wasn't sure where that might be, but Jack's skin felt the same as his own, lightly haired and hot to the touch. He reassured himself, tasting the dip of Jack's collarbone, running his tongue over skin which felt the same and tasted of Jack, timeless and foreign, yet as familiar as the scent of black currants in the summer.

Ianto touched it all, fingers mapping Jack's arms, following the curves and the lines down to his fingertips. The pads had calluses from the gun he carried, the occurrence striking Ianto as unusual as the lack of scarring. He kissed the callus of Jack's forefinger, willing away the violence, licking the slight raise before sucking the whole digit into his mouth, to the delight of Jack if the rise of his hips were any indication. Ianto could feel the press of Jack's cock against his arse, could feel when he hit a sensitive spot -- the underside of a wrist, the dip of a bicep, the skin just above the beating pulse in his neck.

Faint memory of flashes of navy blue, of awareness gifted by artificial pheromones matched what Ianto tasted, fingers now trailing down Jack's chest. A wall indeed, but pliable, giving just a bit beneath his hands and burning with heat, casting a sheen of sweat that  slicked his path. Ianto shifted and slid down Jack's body, feeling hard fire trace a line from his arse to his stomach.  Jack's erection pressed flat between their stomachs, his hips less mobile as Ianto's thighs squared against Jack's. The new position gave Ianto access to Jack nipples, dark rings pulled tight against the curved wall of skin. He nipped down on one and was nearly thrown from Jack's bed as Jack bucked beneath him.

"Fuck! Christ, Ianto."

Intriguing -- Jack had picked up a deity during this time. Jack's shout reminded Ianto to listen; he'd forgotten to listen as he touched and tasted, licked and smelled. Ianto kept a careful ear tuned to Jack, drinking in all the groans and pleading, what made Jack growl deep in his throat (hands firmly on hips holding him down, Ianto's body out of reach, the bud of a nipple held between his teeth, tongue flicking the end) and what made Jack beg ("Please, Ianto! Christ, just touch me, lean forward, let me touch you don't stop but fuck I need you to touch me!"). Ianto even made him squeak, just the once, Jack's voice slipping octaves (fingers squeezing his arse, pulling Jack up to meet his body, white silk/cotton blend rubbing down the length of Jack's cock, tongue delving into his navel).

Ianto felt Jack's breath quicken, saw his chest rise and fall in rapid pace, anticipation and want pushing his hips to find any touch, any brush. He wondered if Jack could come like that, hips straining against Ianto's hands while his lips sucked a blushed mark on the skin. Probably, but Ianto was not curious to test the theory. He slid further down Jack's legs, making sure his trouser-clad legs rubbed against Jack's skin. Jack might have whimpered.  Ianto was distracted from his listening by the sight of Jack's cock before him, straining up in the cool air of Jack's room, hot and heavy and flushed dark with want. Ianto looked, lips just out of reach, Jack's erection twitching as each breath flowed around it.

And then he tasted, not bothering with touch as he knew this part of Jack, but he tasted, licking a swirl around the head before mouthing down the shaft, feeling the rise and fall of the vein with his lips, tracing the curve and slight bend, fighting with his body to keep Jack from pitching him onto the floor. Jack was rather vocal, though none of it too nice, calling Ianto a cocktease, a son of a bitch, and Ianto was fairly certain there was a language not native to earth thrown in. Ianto just ignored him, sucking one of Jack's balls into his mouth and rolling it gently with his tongue before moving to the other, showing the same attention to detail as the other, noting that the one was slightly smaller, more round. Not an imperfection but another reassuring mark against perfection.

He retraced his path, sucking and licking the length of Jack's cock before he mouthed just the head, tasting the pre-cum beading on the tip -- bitter, salty, just a concentration of Jack that Ianto had tasted before. Relenting to Jack's pleas, the hand in his hair urging Ianto down, Ianto slowly slid his mouth over the length, applying an increasing pressure as he moved. Jack's erection felt as it had tasted, a fiery heat and silken skin, heavy against his tongue. Ianto traced the curve as his head rose, then fell again, spit slicking the way and making them move quicker, faster. God, Jack's intensity was poured into his cock.  Ianto could feel the passion that drove him and the love for life thrumming beneath the surface, as tightly wound as his speech, his actions, even in sex.

There was no warning -- a surprised cry indicated that Jack's orgasm had caught even himself off guard. It didn't matter as Ianto's fingers curled into the skin of Jack's hips, holding him firmly in place as Ianto swallowed. Jack's whole body trembled, cock slowly softening as Ianto continued to gently lick every trace of cum. That was until a hand tugged his hair, pulling Ianto up Jack's body not with force but an urgency, a desperate need as Jack kissed him, ravaging Ianto's mouth for every last taste before dropping into a lazy press of lip and tongue.

"Fuck, Ianto."

"Not to be presumptuous, Jack, but I had rather hoped you might follow with that."

Laughter followed, Jack's words hot over Ianto's ear as he nuzzled and tugged. "Give me a moment to recover. I've not got your youth."

"To be honest, I don't believe you've had my youth for a very long time."

The hands that had been rubbing slow circles over his back stilled for a moment before resuming. "Are you calling me old?"

Ianto pushed off the mattress so he could look Jack in the eye without going crossed, a smile twitching at his lips. "I'm calling you special, Jack. I'm just lucky you're not using a walker to get about, that fall into bed might have fractured your hip."

Jack silenced him with a kiss, preventing further comment from Ianto but not punishing (or denying) the knowledge. Which suited Ianto perfectly fine; he didn't want Jack to lie either.

"Up." A slap on his arse drew Ianto's attention from Jack's lips. For a moment Ianto was confused until he realized he was still dressed. He crawled off Jack, taking note of the renewed interest as he slid over Jack's skin with as much contact as possible.

"Hedonist."

"Pot, kettle."

"Eyes closed."

"What?" Ianto turned to find Jack but he received a finger-poke in his shoulder for the effort.

"Eyes closed."

He closed his eyes dutifully, standing still as he heard all the silence in the Hub but couldn't hear Jack. Whatever Ianto had planned to say next was lost as Jack came up behind him, pressing his body full against Ianto's back. The sudden sensation rang every nerve in his body. In the dark behind his eyes, he could hear the steady breathing of Jack's, the increase in his own ... even his heart racing sounded louder. He felt a tug at his tie, could feel it snaking its way around his neck as Jack removed it. Jack enveloped him, pressed hard against his back and arms around Ianto's, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, button by button, rounded edge dipping slightly into his skin before popping away. God, it was going to drive Ianto mad before Jack undid them all, so he pressed back against Jack to emphasize his point.

"Pushy," was laughed into his ear, startling him but distracting him from the slow dip-pop of the buttons. Ianto tried to help, but his hands were pushed away, noticing first the absence of Jack's body against his and then chill air as his shirt was pulled away. Jack's chest returned, skin against skin, and Ianto would have come right then if not for a will-power built by Jean-Luc's thoughts and phantom touches at the most inopportune time.

Jack noticed though, chuckling as he kissed Ianto's shoulder while he unbelted his pants. "I wonder if I could make you come just from touching your back."

  
"Considered the same thing about you and your hips..." Ianto's voice trailed off into a groan, Jack had squeezed his cock and it nearly sent all restraint fleeing as he arched against Jack hand, pushing into it with as much leverage as Ianto had. As it was, he felt his trousers and briefs slip to his ankles and an answering need pressing into his hip.

"Lift your foot."

  
Ianto did, feeling Jack kick away his trousers, automatically lifting the other to receive the same treatment. No sense tripping over himself as they moved to the bed. He didn't think Jack would allow him to fall, but it was a nice comfort, nearly as comforting as the solid wall against his back. He was guided to the bed; Ianto only knew when the mattress hit his knees. He kept his eyes closed, though, more from curiosity than anything.

He knew Jack had joined him on the bed, a heavy dip in the mattress as Jack settled between his legs, soft hair tickling at his inner thighs. Ianto couldn't tell what he was doing, however. Even Jack's breath was silent. "Jack?" He heard a drawer click shut near his head and Ianto stilled, a hundred different toys and gadgets flipping through his mind quicker than he could name, and that didn't count any alien tech Jack might have stored away for personal use...

"Easy," Jack whispered in his ear, sounding so loud in the quiet of the room that Ianto figured he might have been speaking normally if not for the hushed sound, having apparently deduced Ianto's discomfort. "I'll never use anything without asking first, and then you can always tell me to stop."

With a nod, Ianto melted back into the bedding, relaxing despite still not having a visual of what Jack was doing.

"Beautiful," partnered with a tickle of fingers down his sides, Ianto squirming at the touch. Ianto knew he had heard it for sure this time. There was no club noise he could blame it on.

It made him blush, straight down to his toes.

"Jack, please."

It wasn't a beg, Ianto didn't beg. But he wanted Jack to move, to do something, to do anything. On some level he comprehended that this delay was similar to what he had done to Jack earlier, but Ianto had waited so long. Lips crushed his, tongue twining just as he felt two slicked fingers slip inside him, moving in time and motion, mimicking each other until Ianto could no longer tell the difference between them.

And then they went away, fingers, tongue, lips, abandoning Ianto to silence and bereftness so keen he felt it to his core. He might have whimpered as well, but he would never admit it. No matter how Jack blackmailed him.

"Open your eyes, Ianto."

Ianto listened, opening his eyes quickly and blinking at the sudden yet dim light. Jack came into focus. A desperate Jack, anticipation broken and pure need bringing a flush to his face. As soon as Jack realized he had Ianto's attention, he moved and Ianto _felt_. His legs were splayed, his hips raised (how and when he arrived in that position he couldn't remember), and fuck he felt as Jack slid inside him, slick and fire at once. And Jack watched, watched it all, and Ianto knew because he was looking back. The movement in the corner of his eye matched the increasing thrusts of Jack's hips, which he rose to meet. It was too close to perfect and too long in coming. The bare touch of Jack's hand against Ianto's erection sent him crying out, coming hard enough to blur Jack's face in front of him.

He felt Jack's head fall on the pillow beside his, his breath tickling down Ianto's throat, lips moving but saying nothing for a time before Jack braced his arms above Ianto's head and resumed his quick, hard thrusts until Ianto felt him shudder, groaning his release into Ianto's shoulder.

They didn't move, neither one. Ianto didn't think he could move, be it fatigue or the weight of Jack's body, he wasn't sure. And he didn't quite care. Jack mumbled something about dates but Ianto didn't pay attention, nose pressed against the rapid pace of Jack's pulse. He could hear that, he understood that language, and it lulled him to sleep.

***

  
Jack had given him a stupid grin when he heard Ianto placing the lunch order for the day; Ianto pretended not to notice. It wasn't from Julbilee's; he wasn't sure if he could ever order from there again, even if they were the closest and really had the best pizza in the neighborhood. Ianto wasn't sure what story had been told to cover the girl's abscense -- Vicki Weber had been her name -- but he didn't ask. He really didn't want to know.

But he'd ordered pizza. And Ianto refused to allow Jack and his wide, full-toothed grin to make him believe his actions had been anything more than simply ordering pizza.

Ianto smiled anyway.

He had woken in the middle of the night in a strange bed, confused and startled but, oddly enough, without the terrors that often drove him to wakefulness. It was only the linens that smelled different, and that had apparently been enough to draw him from sleep. Lying back to familiarize himself, Ianto stared up at the ceiling of Jack's room and chided his foolish reaction. The bed was empty; the spot next to him not even warm, but Ianto hardly found that surprising. He knew Jack's sleeping habits as well as he knew his own.

Ianto had dressed and collected his things with reluctance -- he was loathe to leave but he needed a change of clothes, a shower, and maybe a short nap before returning to work. He had found Jack staring at one of Tosh's monitors displaying rift activity (or lack thereof), rolling a rose petal between his fingers. Ianto didn't have to ask where it was from.  He only wished he had found it before Jack, before the scowl had permanently etched itself within Jack's features.

Ianto had done his best to ignore the blood-red dying Jack's fingers when he'd made enough noise to draw Jack's attention, feeling a bit awkward at the reminder of their job and their duties, yet pleasantly sore and smelling of sex. God, Ianto didn't think he'd ever forget that smell: Jack and sweat and colored with heat, different from the times before, those quick shags stolen in whatever location they could find offering a modicum of privacy. Maybe it had been the confines of the room. The smell of sex had suffused Jack's room and now was bursting into the Hub, following Ianto's path and bringing with it memory of skin gliding over skin, Jack's breath tickling fire across his neck. When Myfanwy squawked overhead, Ianto was fairly sure the pterodactyl could smell it, too.

Jack's brow had risen, eyes drifting down Ianto's body to the tent of his trousers, a salacious smirk replacing the scowl. With a casual shrug, a natural response to remembering the night before was not something he was particularly ashamed of as it had been a quite memorable evening. Ianto had been happy to provide a distraction.

Amid the slow morning kisses and the roll of hips, Ianto had pried the petal from Jack's fingers, slipping the crushed remains into his pocket to dispose of later. Jack hadn't said anything, and their kiss never broke, but his hand that had wound itself through Ianto's hair tightened for just a moment.

The pizza arrived without flourish or delay, the greasy cheese smell turning Ianto's stomach. He'd probably never eat the stuff again, but the team didn't have to suffer his hang-ups. The delivery person was a freckled boy, looking just old enough to operate a scooter. Ianto was sorely tempted to urge him to quit, to give up the life of a delivery boy and take up surfing the Internet for porn. It was far safer. He didn't, however, just tipped him generously and fervently hoped never to see the boy again.

Owen let out a "whoop!" when Ianto carried the pizza into the Hub, and Gwen and Tosh shared a relieved look. Either they had truly missed pizza as an option for lunch (likely), or Ianto had been more transparent than he had thought and they had picked up on his phobia (possible, though Ianto was hesitant to call it probable). The fact that Owen had never mocked him or commented led Ianto to believe it had at least been acknowledged, and quite possibly tolerated. Frightfully disturbing and almost as warming as Gwen and Owen's bid to help Tosh.

He still couldn't believe that he had hid it as poorly as he apparently had. Jack catching on, sure. But the others?

Ianto set the pizza boxes on the table in the conference room, the only table large enough to hold everyone for lunch. Like moths to a flame the team swarmed, grabbing spots at the table and plates (only Tosh bothered with a napkin -- he would be cleaning grease from the table, chairs, doors, and keyboards all afternoon). Something of his disgust must have shown, Jack was suddenly handing out napkins to the others like he was dealing a hand of cards. Three apiece, slight overkill. Apparently "don't spook the spooked" was the theme for the day. Ianto just wished he wasn't the one the others were dancing around. It was a disgusting bit of unwanted attention, though he was sure standing off to the side of the room was drawing enough attention as well.

But he really despised the smell of pizza..

"I'll see to the drinks, then." Ianto's clipped statement of intent returned their focus to him, guilty eyes rising from the food long enough to remind Ianto why he had enjoyed being a shadow for so long. Of course none of them had considered fetching beverages for lunch, just another of Ianto's duties. Tosh moved to stand, Gwen following in kind.

"We can get the drinks. Sit and grab yourself a slice. The pepperoni's not as good as Jubilee's, but it's really quite delicious."

Ianto counted to ten, slowly -- the first time he had resorted to his father's advice doled out when Elaine and he had been children, about to lash out at the other in true sibling fashion. Their father had always intervened, always knowing when the storm was about to burst and someone would end up crying. "Always count to ten a'fore you yell at kith and kin," he'd rhyme as Elaine and Ianto glared at each other for whatever infinitely small reason they had been angry with the other. Gwen deserved the counting now, though Ianto would hardly call it a sibling spat. More a low tolerance of "humanity," as Jack liked to excuse it.

"No, enjoy your lunch. I had a late breakfast."

"Oh, we can save you a slice for supper then!"

He wasn't sure who had struck her, but Gwen's muffled "ouch!" followed him down to the kitchen.

Humanity indeed.

***

  
Ianto loaded the serving tray with a glass of water for Jack, colas for the other three. It was ridiculous, he knew, feeling slighted for what had always been his job. The assumptions were borne of his role within Torchwood Three as teaboy, not any intentional slight of character. Which, as Ianto understood his unwritten job description, meant he did everything and anything. Including fetch drinks other than tea (or coffee).

He drew the line at tearing squares of toilet paper for Tosh and Gwen, though.

 _"Ianto!!"_

Jean-Luc's voice ripped through Ianto's skull, piercing through any barriers Ianto held in place and shattering all thought. It was deafening, it was constricting ... his mind felt like it was shrinking in on itself, building inward. God, it _hurt_ , pain like a sword stabbing at his mind, despite knowing somehow rationally that the brain held no nerve endings and therefore he shouldn't feel pain. But rationality no longer existed, just a fight to remain conscious and to stuff out the burning fire racing through his mind. He could feel Jean-Luc's shout in his toes, in his fingers, in his lungs where he might as well have been sucker punched for all he could breathe. His name silenced all things. The world collapsed around him, splintering into brilliant shards of light and color, fractions of a whole that mashed and squeezed the melted remains of his mind. Everything Ianto considered "him" was gone and nothing remained but the black of pain.

It was all that existed behind closed eyes, his name pinballing around in the dark hollow, echoing again and again, diminishing with each ping, a softening cry. Awareness crept in, slowly, steathily, until Ianto could feel hands trying to pry his hands from his head, and others trying to force open his eyes. One succeeded, one hand, one eye, a flash of light so bright the pain returned, making him rear back into the hands still struggling to hold him. Everything was too much. All the touching. He could feel the pressure of the air on his skin, the heat of hands holding his arms, burning, trying to force him supine. The world swirled and spun, despite the dark behind his eyes, and Ianto pulled away, finding what he knew was the counter and pushing himself up, half-standing, half-crouched, fists smashing into his temples as if sheer force could kill the pain in his head.

He could feel, could sense the cabinets behind him, but he could hear nothing. _Nothing_. What the hell just happened? Ianto slowly opened his eyes, cracking them just a little to allow some light in while dreading the strike of light that would soon meet his eyes. But the room was dark, or rather, dim. The lights were off; a small light over the sink provided enough to see. His eyes refused to cooperate, however, blurring and tearing as colors swam blues into golds and greens into reds. As did his balance, the world refusing to remain still beneath him. He saw movement, a white blob, and stuck out his hand to prevent them from getting closer. Ianto knew he didn't need to be medicated right now; he didn't need whatever drugs Owen was planning on giving him (that could only be Owen, Jack didn't wear white often, and not that day, and neither did Tosh, and Gwen ... well, there was no reason Gwen would be approaching him). He might have said "stop." Ianto knew he thought it at the very least, and the blob complied, allowing Ianto to will his vision back into line.

Shaking his head, Ianto realized what an error he'd made as the world slanted in dizzying displays of lurching color. God, he was going to be sick. Something held him upright, a hand (probably Jack's, as Owen's were smaller) and Ianto could feel the pressure from each finger, each joint, the thumb digging into his arm. Blinking rapidly, his vision began to come together, zigzagged lines straightening, pieces slanting into place and colors becoming whole - blue into blue, green into green. Owen was talking, lips moving too fast at the moment for Ianto to catch. He didn't think Owen was talking to him anyways. Fuck, his head hurt. As much as Ianto hoped Jean-Luc would follow up with an explanation, he feared any touch to his mind. It felt wobbly as his knees, and for the moment they remained very shaky. What had happened?

Ianto's ears began to ring, a loud, insistent ring that struck a frighteningly loud note before ebbing, slowly fading until he could start making out shapes of words, phrases, voices. If he didn't know any better (and at the moment he was fairly uncertain of anything), it was like all his senses had gone offline and were rebooting, leading to an irrational fear that he was actually connected to the Matrix. Which was ridiculous, but he couldn't stop the suspicion that Neo was going to walk through the door.

Dimly, Ianto could tell Owen was asking him a quesiton. Repeated questions. Repeated inane questions regarding the year and the date and who the hell would remember the phone number of their neighbor's house when they were ten? (1792 516750 oh _fuck_ it hurt to think; Owen was a dead man). Laughter curled around him, he could hear that, laughter wasn't difficult to understand. Ianto realized he'd spoken out loud, though what he had said he wasn't sure. It was taking a great deal to focus on hearing and it was easier not to. That, and he was still feeling rather green.

Jean-Luc.

He straightened, focusing his attention on Owen's hand dancing in front of his face. Ianto slapped it away, annoyed that Owen kept trying to treat him for concussion when he'd not struck his head. At least he didn't think he had. Ianto couldn't remember ever kneeling on the ground. The tray was gone from the counter; it was on the floor not far from where he stood. That would explain the damp knees of his trousers. And why everyone was crowded into the kitchen. The noise must have brought them.

Anger at Jean-Luc rapidly cleared his head -- anger that blanketed the terror of considering what may have happened. A damp flannel was pressed to his nose. For a moment Ianto struggled, but then caught sight of the red coloring the cloth. A nosebleed? He didn't remember, but then, Ianto had problems remembering the immediate details following Jean-Luc's voice filling his mind. Ianto held still, letting Jack (Jack's hand) clean the blood from his face. Embarrassing, yes. But Ianto didn't have the time to worry about things like finding a mirror and cleaning up.

He had to find Jean-Luc. And then yell at him for a very, very long time until his head hurt as badly as Ianto's did.

Owen kept asking him questions, where it hurt ("everywhere") and what happened ("migraine") and could he move ("no, I rather like my flat"). The scrubbing flannel disappeared and Ianto assumed he was cleaned up enough to leave without startling passersby. He had put on a dark dress shirt that morning and was now rather glad for the choice. It hopefully hid any stain. Pushing away from the wall, fighting the hands trying to keep him in place, Ianto took a few cautious steps away from the counter, making sure the floor didn't tilt on its axis to reacquaint itself with him again.

"Just where do you think you're off to?"

His steps didn't falter (much, though he may have leaned against the wall rather heavily at points), reaffirming Ianto's belief that whatever it was was passing and alleviating the pain, although leaving lingering aches in his head and body as a (not-so) gentle reminder to yell at Jean-Luc when Ianto found him. Because he would find him. And yell at him. Loudly. "Going home, migraine." Ianto ignored Owen as he trailed behind him down to the medical shelves where Ianto knew aspirin was kept. Not that he thought it would actually help the throbbing pain in his head, but maybe it'd have a placebo effect. A bottle of paracetymol was slapped into his hand. Good doctor, concerned for the nose bleed. Aspirin might not be the best choice right now and Ianto didn't want anything stronger that would cloud his mind.

Ianto swallowed three pills and stuffed the bottle in his pocket with a mental note to order a replacement bottle as he fled Owen's labs.

"Ianto!"

He ignored Owen, pace picking up as Ianto grew more confident he wasn't going to vomit spectacularly on someone's desk or trip over his own feet, giving himself a head injury for real. He shouldn't run, he shouldn't raise anyone's curiosity, but the more clear his head felt, the more _wrong_ the situation was. Jean-Luc would never harm him. Not with intent. Ianto ignored the tickles of thought growing like kudzu across his mind, of Lana, of Kjetil, of Rani, of whatever had Jean-Luc frightened when he'd shown up at the Information Center. Of his mother's call ...

Something wasn't right. In fact, something was incredibly wrong.

Ianto reached the rolling door, hitting it open long enough to slip through and closing it as he passed to slow Owen down who was still following him, insisting he stay. Owen couldn't help him. In fact, his problem wasn't really medical.

Jean-Luc was in trouble.

It took forever to reach the Information Center, time Ianto desperately knew he didn't have to waste. He'd phoned Jean-Luc's mobile and was unsurprised when he received no answer. Likewise the main number for Avalon. He grabbed his keys from the Desk and turned to race out the door, stopping suddenly when Jack appeared in front of him. It nearly sent him reeling, unsteady as he was, but he maintained his balance and warily eyed Jack.

"Can we help?"

  
The question surprised Ianto, though in truth it really shouldn't have. Jack must have figured it out, somehow put two and two together to equal Jean-Luc. Ianto would have appreciated the help, would have appreciated Jack's steady calm under pressure, but as much as Ianto wanted Jack to come with, to have everyone with Torchwood join him, he couldn't. There were secrets and he just...couldn't.

"No."

Jack nodded, having expected the response it seemed. Ianto thought for a moment he saw respect, but his eyes still weren't entirely unblurred and he might have confused it with mistrust. Or doubt. But maybe it had been respect.

Two handguns were held out to Ianto, both cased and heavy with ammunition. Blinking in surprise, he took them. They were part of Torchwood's arsenal, but Torchwood wasn't going with him. He didn't even know that he needed ....and then he remembered Lana's. And Kjetil. And Rani. And Jack must have remembered them, too. Ianto gripped the weapons tightly, hoping he wouldn't have to use them, but knowing that if Jean-Luc was in danger, he would without question. Because that's what they did, nevermind who the other worked for.

"Thank you."

Jack didn't smile, didn't say anything, just nodded once and stepped aside, clearing the path for the door. Ianto walked forward, then thought better of it, turning around to push Jack backwards against the wall into the calculated area of CCTV deadspace. The guns and his keys jabbed into his stomach, but they most certainly dug into Jack's as well and he made no sound. Ianto didn't either. His kiss was returned with equal fervor tasting of desperation and reassurance, banishing the last weakness Ianto felt from having his head threatening to implode. It could have been the paracetymol; Ianto liked to believe it was the kiss. Knowing he was losing time, Ianto pulled away, nipping gently at Jack's lower lip before straightening.

"Come back," was all Jack said, pushing his hands into his pockets, looking small without his greatcoat.

Ianto returned the nod, not sure if it was an avowal or merely agreeing to haunt the place if he died. With one last look at Jack, he turned and sprinted out the door.

He had a long road before he reached Avalon.


	5. Avalon's Red Tears

The drive to London didn't take Ianto nearly as long as it should have, but took far longer than he wanted. His headache had dulled to a low body ache, complete with flashes of hyper-sharp vision and a muscle twitch in his left calf muscle. Made driving hazardous (he'd nearly crashed twice, once when his eyes had suddenly focused on a fencepost vine and not the road in front of him and again when he doubled over with a leg cramp and swerved into oncoming traffic), but he never slowed his speed or changed his intent. He had no explanation as to the residual effects of Jean-Luc's shout -- he didn't even know Jean-Luc's purpose in shouting so damned loud. Best Ianto could figure, something had surprised Jean-Luc and, like an electrical charge, the cry had overloaded Ianto's mind. And his body, Ianto noted, as his eyes began to twitch again, the rings of muscle spasming and screwing with the shape of the lenses, pulling things into focus that shouldn't be and blurring objects right in front of him.

What he wouldn't give for a muscle relaxant. He was going to be sore the next couple days.

The skies were overcast, tinting the world in grey, a shade perfectly suiting Ianto. Without the glare of the sun, Ianto's headache eased with the passing stretches of road. With that lack of distraction, Ianto could think, the slow, trickle of awareness and connections developing between facts urging him to go faster, to push the limits of safety and sense.

Sometimes, he really hated thinking.

Several attempts had been made on children of Avalon: Rani, Kjetil, others who were under Jean-Luc's protection. Some had been successful. From what Ianto knew, they were human. The woman and men who had gone after Rani had appeared for all intents and purpose human, which was probably why Ms. White had never contacted Torchwood for assistance. Ianto had been shot with a man-made gun, Guardians and parents had been killed, _Lana's_ had been destroyed. It was organized, it was ruthless, and all they wanted were the gifted. Bystanders and protectors were what? Mere collateral damage in their hunt to capture? But except for Lana and the club members (who Ianto had to assume were gifted as well, like Caleb), they were just children. And Caleb, a talented clairvoyant, had been left behind while Lana, one just crossing Avalon's threshold for empathic abilities, had been taken. Jean-Luc was worried, as was Ms. White. Avalon had withdrawn, bunking down inside its walls.

And now, Jean-Luc's shout.

It hadn't been a normal cry, it hadn't been random. It hadn't been a reaction in surprise, a generalized vocalization of pain or fear. It had been directed at Ianto and projected so that Ianto would hear it, no matter the mental blocks or distance between them. The others in the Hub hadn't heard the shout; they'd had no reaction to it. It hadn't been broadcast. Ianto had been the target and the recipient, and he wasn't sure what that meant, beyond the fact that Jean-Luc trusted him to help. And that it was Avalon-related.

Fuck, what he wouldn't give for some answers.

As he rounded the corner to enter the domain of Avalon and Ms. White's offices (a series of city blocks owned in secret by the government and bordered on one side by the Thames), Ianto received one.

He could _see_ Avalon.

The building stretched an entire city block, five stories tall and shrouded in light stone and red brick, hundreds of windows reflecting the grey. Steepled alcoves adorned each window along the rooftop, turrets rounded the four corners hiding spiraling staircases that Ianto and Jean-Luc had raced down to hide from whatever instructor had caught them out after hours. On the west end, the grand arched entranceway into Avalon was flanked by stained glass windows stretching and curving upwards in phoenix and unicorn design, the mythological watchers of the ones housed within. The east end housed Ms. White's offices, St. George slaying the dragon its watcher in paneled colored glass. Separating the two were the North and South Wings filled with long hallways (and some secret passageways as well), classrooms, and dormitories. In the center lay a massive courtyard filled with an unusual mix of play equipment and open grassy areas, iron sculptures, and landscaped gardens. Ianto knew it was a home of beauty and architecture, of warmth and family, for the children who chose to live there. There were trees to climb, both in the courtyard and in the great parks surrounding the school on the three sides, with a gated fence lining the edges of the property that protected the kids from view and danger.

There was no one at the guard station now; the gates hung askew.

Ianto knew he shouldn't _see_ Avalon. He should see a massive warehouse, run down, decrepit, the curl of fog from the river cloaking the building in a haze. The windows should be broken, the roof partially collapsed in the southeastern corner of the structure. He should see a rat or two scurrying along the building's edge, and perhaps a wiry mongrel slinking after, depending on the talent and creativity of the mind protecting Avalon. There should be no trees, no grass, no flowers, and definitely no cars in the carpark.

Ianto shouldn't see the North Wing burning.

Fear he refused to permit himself to feel bubbled just at the edges of vision as his car tires screeched to a halt in front of Avalon's entranceway. The children first. Jean-Luc, no matter how concerned Ianto was for him, was second on his list.

The oppressing smell of smoke and something -- foul...sulfuric and rotten -- met Ianto as he entered, one gun tucked into his trousers and the other held ready in front of him. He wasn't exactly employing stealth entering through the front door, but Ianto at least did not raise his voice to attract unwanted attention. If that attention still remained in the walls. Unlikely, given the two hours it had taken Ianto to arrive. By now he had little time for stealth.

He was not thinking of Torchwood One.

The entrance was destroyed, white marble pocketed by gunfire and what looked like pits from explosive devices. Whoever had entered here had attacked with full force, with little care for human life - guard or child. Ianto stopped at each of the three guardsmen, feeling for life but finding none. By all appearances they had been shot in their defense of the two wings and the grand staircases leading to the upper floors. Ianto had always wondered why armed defense -- the best men and women snatched away from U.N.I.T. -- was necessary, but Jean-Luc had assured him it was. While Jean-Luc and four others provided Avalon's false exterior round the clock (and in Jean-Luc's case, additional security), non-gifted security personnel were required in case the team was somehow nullified.

And apparently, even that had not been enough to defend Avalon.

One guard, a giant man with arms the size of Ianto's thighs with no identification that Ianto could see, was stretched oddly, back to the wall. Nausea returned as Ianto pushed aside the body to reveal a small blonde girl, no more than seven, her carotid lacerated. She still clutched a hall pass in one hand. She hadn't had a chance, for all the guard had tried to protect her. Abigail Marsters. He remembered her from the photos Jean-Luc had shown him, proud as a father of a newborn, of the newest class at Avalon. Little Abby was a little spitfire and a moderate telepath. Jean-Luc had looked forward to coaching her

Fear shifted within Ianto. Images of the Battle swirling away as anger rushed forward, steadying his hand and his resolve as he stood. She was a child, for god's sake. They were _children_ at Avalon. It was a school, a home.

And now it was destroyed.

Ianto raced down the corridor to the South Wing, first floor (as the North Wing burned), dodging overturned statues, chunks of fallen ceiling, and rubble strewn about the hall. It was mid-day; the kids would have been in classrooms, not their dormitories. He stepped up to the first classroom he came across and crept in, gun raised. The instructor, Hector Ramirez Santiago, lay fallen on the floor. Ianto remembered him; he taught beginners and advanced ethics and world history. Ianto had liked Hector, he was one of the few who had initially welcomed Ianto and Elaine to sit in on his classes, back during his two month holidays, both to learn and to help alleviate some of the boredom they had felt. Elaine had eventually quit coming, but Ianto had been enrapt by Hector's stories and the challenging situations he would present. When was it okay to read a mind? Could you force someone suspected of having information regarding national security to speak and reveal their secrets? When was it okay to use telekinesis to enhance your job performance? If you had a vision of someone's death, should you tell them? What of a murder -- should you report them? Should you tell your partner? Should you let them know you can hear their public thoughts? Just because I'm gifted, does that mean I'm better? The students all loved his classes, which were some of the most important Avalon taught. He had been well-respected, even though he had no gift of his own.

The thought that someone would so carelessly destroy a life like that only fueled Ianto's anger. He hadn't been to Avalon for over a year -- Torchwood Three tended to monopolize his time -- but the losses felt the same as though he'd been there just yesterday.

Hector had been a good man.

Tearing himself away from the floor and from dwelling in the past, Ianto looked about the classroom. Desks were overturned, paper littered the floor. Oddities caught Ianto's eye -- a pencil buried into a wall, thumb tacks dotted across a white board, a scorch mark darkening the ceiling, a book laying with its spine broken on the floor.

The kids had fought back, with everything they had.

Curiosity aside as to how whomever was responsible had removed the kids from the premise despite the kids' fight, Ianto reevaluated the situation. The children were gone. He checked four more classrooms and found the same: teachers dead or missing, children vanished. They had been proficient in their attack, whoever "they" were. It seemed they knew which instructors were gifted as well, at least from the dead Ianto recognized. How the hell had they gotten this insight into Avalon? Ianto wasn't sure and the notion that it one of the staff might be involved sickened him. It couldn't have been one of Avalon's staff -- they understood what they were doing and why. They wouldn't have betrayed the children like this.

They wouldn't have.

The debris grew deeper as Ianto progressed through the wing, the smoke thicker. He knew the police and fire crew had strict orders not to attend to any matters within these four blocks. The rise of smoke wouldn't bring help. Even the sounds of gunfire and explosion wouldn't bring investigation, though U.N.I.T. might arrive eventually. Avalon was one of the untouchables, like Torchwood, and that included the local law.

Which meant the fires in the North Wing couldn't be stopped -- though why the automatic sprinklers weren't working was another mystery.

Ianto caught sight of a familiar boot sticking out from beneath a fallen timber and he ran towards it, stashing the gun he was carrying into the waistband of his trousers. He recognized that boot, he'd often looked across the floor at them when he'd been knocked to the ground yet again by a move he hadn't deflected. Ianto hadn't even considered that his mentor might have fallen in the defense of Avalon, but it shouldn't have surprised him. Stephen would give his life to protect the kids.

Straining every muscle in his back, arms, and legs (again what he wouldn't give for a muscle relaxant), Ianto managed to lift the timber, unwilling to leave his old friend without paying respects before the pyre of Avalon consumed him. He struggled to move it aside, managing to shift it slightly when he came face to face with a gun, nearly surprising him into dropping the heavy ceiling piece. "Fuck! Stephen."

"Ianto?"

"You expected rescue from anyone else?" With a grin he didn't quite feel, Ianto heaved the wooden beam away from Stephen, wincing as he saw the state of Stephen's lower left leg. The beam's weight had been borne by the bone; it would take someone far more trained in medicine, and probably a few pins, to mend it. "Think you can move? The place is going to burn down around us."

"The children?"

"Missing."

"The others?"

Ianto shook his head, unwilling to vocalize what his friend feared. The others were coworkers, friends, the closest thing to family that most of them had. Many had been around for over a decade. Ianto understood the loss, even if not on the same level. Torchwood One had never been family, but they had shared a common interest, a common bond of employ. At Avalon, the bonds were even closer, more like the Cardiff branch. Ianto could empathize. "What happened?"

Stephen hesitated before answering, catching his breath as the motion of standing, despite Ianto's help, jostled his leg. "Heard an explosion towards the east ... thought it was just another accident by kids fooling around, you know how things can go here. Started down the hall when the whole west end shook. Then ... then there was just...chaos." He paused, awareness lighting his face and he began to direct Ianto down the hall. "Ms. White? And Jean-Luc was on duty."

"Don't know -- I entered through the West door." Ianto's fingers went numb as he offered support to Stephen as he valiantly hobbled in a rush to the east end. He felt his face blanch at the thought of yet another unconsidered participant: Ms. White. Ianto hadn't even thought that she might be in her offices. She was always in, always working. Her life was Avalon; Torchwood was a hobby.

And there had been an explosion.

It took them far too long to reach the end of the South Wing, but Stephen was pushing himself faster than he ought. Ianto could see it in the sweat that beaded his temples, feel it in the arm clutching his shoulder. Through one of the classroom windows as they passed, Ianto glanced across the courtyard where the fire still flickered amid the blackened skeletal remains of the North Wing. The blaze was already beginning to chew its way across the East Hall. Ms. White's main office was closer to the South Wing than the North; Ianto both hoped they'd beat the racing flames and feared what they would find if they did.

The doors usually cloaked by Jean-Luc were blasted into the South Wing's hall, revealing the corridor connecting Ms. White's office with Avalon. No one was supposed to know it existed, but like most secret passageways, it seemed known by enough. Ianto helped Stephen maneuver the destruction and they both froze in the doorway, needing a moment to recover from shock and to take it all in.

Ms. White's office was in ruin.

While the rest of Avalon was riddled and pockmarked with gunfire and blast powder, fallen debris and casual destruction, the obliteration of Ms. White's office seemed, to Ianto's eye, far more personal. Nothing remained on the walls, two of the walls were actually no longer standing; solid support beams were all that kept the third floor from crashing down. Nothing was untouched, and nothing had escaped. The massive desk Ms. White was so proud of was twisted and broken, slammed against the one remaining wall and reduced to splintered remains of a once-glorified office. Nothing remained. The bookshelves were destroyed; the books and artifacts smoldered in a corner, an ashen heap of collected time. Ianto stepped forward, enough to look down the wall to see that the small security center was a shambled mess of broken glass from the view screens, fallen shelves, and fragments of wall and ceiling. This was where Jean-Luc would have been working; right now it was a place Ianto couldn't even stomach entering. An explosive device had probably been thrown inside the security center -- the door frame splintered out into the main office.

There was nothing untouched by Avalon's attackers.

Buried beneath the cracked remains of the Ms. White's heavy oak desk, Ianto saw a carefully manicured hand. He knew without doubt who was beneath. He braced Stephen against the wall. Neither had spoken since they'd entered the room; now Ianto just pointed towards the desk. Carefully he picked his way across the floor, swallowing the lump that had crept into his throat to stop his breath. This was just another casualty, another victim. After a deep breath he moved the pieces of desk until he'd cleared the area to the floor. Ianto stared a moment, then bent down beside the prone figure, touching the cold neck despite knowing with a certainty.

Ms. White was dead.

Ianto didn't look -- he couldn't look. He didn't look at the white blouse stained red from the ugly wound in her chest, or the unnatural lay of her head. He didn't look. He couldn't. The bullet holes in her shoulder, the ones that hadn't bled -- she'd already been dead and they still shot her -- he didn't look at them. He didn't look at the wood from her desk embedded in her skin nor did he see the marks where it appeared a blunt object had struck, repeatedly. He didn't see her eyes frozen in fear or the scream lost forever on her lips

But as much as he didn't look, Ianto knew he'd always remember.

"Ianto! Quickly!"

With a start, Ianto buried whatever he assured himself he wasn't feeling. Now was not the time nor the place to reflect on an individual who had never sought to be the person he had needed throughout his life. It was hard to feel loss when Ianto wasn't certain he ever had anything to feel. It was hard to feel pain for someone he disliked -- he might even say hated, though hate implied a personal connection and she had never been around enough to connect to.

It was hard to feel anything at all.

He paused before standing, spotting the slim necklace she always wore still around neck. It was a fragile chain in gold, Ianto had never seen her without it. But he knew what it was. He grasped the ring that lay on the floor in a puddle of fine gold and tugged, snapping the necklace at its weakest point. Her wedding ring. He would return it to his father.

Ms. White was dead.

Ianto pocketed the ring, distracted for a moment by the increasing heat and smoke as the view outside wavered from heat billowing off the building. The fire was approaching; they had little time.

He hoped the whole place burned.

"Ianto!"

He turned and saw that Stephen had moved and was working to shift rubble from a corner of the room. How he'd managed to get across the room on a broken leg Ianto wasn't sure -- a second glance at the path he would have taken and Ianto realized he must have crawled, hands and knee dragging the injured one past the security office, over shards of glass and sections of wall to retrieve what? Some artifact? Some book? A piece of the office's history? Avalon was gone. The children were gone. The instructors and protectors were all gone. The office and the Secretary were gone. Nothing was left except two Torchwoods -- one with only one employee and the other slowly darkening with the taint Elaine had been so fearful of -- and yet Stephen had crawled across the room and was frantically digging through the rubble in the corner.

God, how they'd failed.

"I need you to help me, Ianto. Jean-Luc's alive."

Stephen's calm request stunned Ianto, but only for a moment. Then he was stumbling forward, frantically throwing pieces of the destroyed room far from Jean-Luc. It took a fraction of time with Ianto helping, just a fraction of time to reach Jean-Luc. He was breathing, Ianto noted, his chest rising slowly and evenly as though he were asleep, though Ianto knew that was a lie. A pool of blood ringed his head, a halo of death for the sentinel of Avalon. Ianto wasn't sure how severe the injury to his head was, but they had no time to truly triage.

"He must have been thrown by the first explosion, buried under rubble. They had assumed he'd be in the security center, he might have noticed something off, came out to warn Ms. White. She's...?"

"Dead." Ianto's anger and returning headache threaded their way through his voice, snapping his response at one who he knew didn't deserve it as he carefully tied his shirt around the makeshift bandaging he'd made from his suit jacket. He felt quickly at Jean-Luc's neck, there didn't appear to be any broken bones, but he didn't have time to secure his friend's back in case there was injury there. He could already hear the crashes of the building as the fire burned, brick and stone collapsing as the support structure crumbled. They didn't have much time.

"Ianto, your shirt..."

Ianto looked at Jean-Luc's head, smothering a cough into his arm while he wondered why Stephen was concerned about a replaceable piece of silk/cotton blend at a time like this. But then he looked at where Stephen was pointing, at the white tee Ianto was wearing, and then Ianto remembered.

"Nosebleed earlier. Come on." Ianto first helped Stephen stand, handing him a piece of bookshelf which would have to serve as a crutch to get out, before manhandling Jean-Luc until he could lift him into a fireman's carry, wishing not for the first time that he had any of Jean-Luc's gift and fervently hoping that Jean-Luc's back had sustained no injury during the blast, as he most certainly would not walk again.

Stephen hobbled out in front of them; Ianto didn't want to miss if he stumbled or fell behind. They passed through the space where the ornate oak double doors had once held away unwanted guests and into the reception area where fire lined the walls and ran across the ceiling. Simone had been killed in her office chair, single gunshot wound to the head. Ianto didn't think she even had time to react.

There were only 25 of them left now.

He had to leave Stephen and Jean-Luc in the gardens as he ran for his car, hating that he couldn't monitor them in case those who had done this hadn't left for good. He still had both of the guns Jack had given him and Stephen still had his, though Ianto's confidence in him being able to hit the broad side of anything after their mad dash from the building was slim. The fire had reached the West Hall as well, the stained glass covering the pavement in reddish orange tears of Avalon reflecting the belching flames from within.

Ianto didn't think that phoenix would ever rise again.

***

  
The drive to the closest hospital was a blur assisted by a subconscious memory of London's streets. Ianto was solely focused on rehearsing a script which would avoid investigation into the source of Stephen's and Jean-Luc's injuries, as well as considering their fake names and trying to remember the false phone numbers Avalon had just for this purpose.

In the end, he just used "Torchwood," consequences be damned. After all, there was no one left to chastise and threaten him for any reveal.

Ianto followed Stephen and Jean-Luc to surgery, flashing his Torchwood credentials and refusing to be dissuaded as these were two individuals who must be protected at all costs. He stood guard just outside the operating theater, gun drawn, earning glares from the doctors and frightened looks from the nursing staff. They moved around him like rattled hens, barking orders and demanding security come and remove him.

Ianto didn't care. And after a few well-placed threats in regards to their jobs, their homes, their knees, and lastly their dicks, because they _were_ Torchwood and Torchwood had the connections, weapons, and authority to do all that, security left him alone.

***

  
Jean-Luc ("Anthony") was finished first. The blow to the back of his head was a hairline skull fracture, but after initial immediate concern, there didn't appear to be any swelling or clotting. Ianto didn't bother to ask the doctors what that meant in regards to his gift, but until Jean-Luc awakened, there'd be no telling what his outcome would be anyway.

Ianto had to make a choice, and knowing full-well how Stephen would respond if he were conscious, he followed Jean-Luc to recovery and then to his room. Stephen was wheeled in three hours later, three pins inserted into the breaks of his tibia and fibula. The surgeon assured Ianto that Stephen ("Jordan") should make a full recovery, given his current level of fitness and the specifics of the breaks.

Nodding his thanks and appreciation, Ianto took up guard in front of the door, not trusting himself to sit for fear of giving in to either the headache ravaging his attention or the sleep that tempted from the shadows. The staff quickly grew accustomed to his steady (armed) watch, bringing him coffee (abysmal) and sandwiches he didn't taste. One doctor even took pity on his appearance and brought him a clean t-shirt that read "Save Carson Beckett" with a like-named website and a picture of some actor on the front.

Not having the slightest clue who Carson Beckett was and why he needed saving, Ianto asked once he'd changed out of the bloodied white tee.

"Oh, he's a character on a tv show. I figured since you were just standing there, you might as well promote the cause."

Ianto had never heard of such a show.

"There's Wraith -- giant walking vampire catfish who suck the life out of you through their hand."

Ianto was fairly certain there was something similar to these "Wraith" in Torchwood's Archive. He didn't tell the doctor, however, just thanked him for the shirt and resumed his guard.

***

  
Stephen ("Jordan") was the first to wake and instantly demanded to join Ianto in his guard of Jean-Luc. He promptly passed out and fell back into bed, not waking again until late morning. All this time, Ianto never broke his watch except on two occasions to use the loo in their room, door open, watching the two sleeping patients rather than his aim.

He didn't really care.

When Stephen finally woke again, he stayed awake, ignoring the pain medication offered to him and insisting he spell for Ianto for a time, distrusting the police and security as much as Ianto when it came to Jean-Luc. Only Stephen's threat of drugging Ianto with a narcotic (with the help of the doctor who had given him the t-shirt, damn him) if he didn't sleep, then shower, encouraged Ianto to stretch out in the bed Stephen had vacated, but not before handing him one of the guns Jack had given Ianto so Stephen would be well-armed (despite being on crutches and in what had to be an incredible amount of pain).

The other went under Ianto's pillow.

***

  
"You look like shite."

Ianto smiled grimly, running a hand through his damp hair. He'd slept, somewhat, for a couple of hours, tossing and turning as he was chased by living fire and those he couldn't save. His calf cramping had roused him from whatever poor sleep he was getting and he hadn't been able to doze off again. Instead, he'd showered and rejoined Stephen at the door. The other man looked equally as shite as Ianto; even his goatee looked wounded.

"You knew to come. How?"

Shrugging, Ianto slipped the gun Stephen handed back to him in the waist of his trousers, falling into his guard stance before answering. "Jean-Luc. You should rest. You know what the doctors said."

Stephen studied him, Ianto could feel his eyes and he obviously was not heeding Ianto's advice. "Jean-Luc." He began listing, like he was ticking each point off a mental checklist, "Nosebleed, I'm assuming headaches? Any loss of sensation? Dizziness? Vomiting? Muscle spasms? Did you lose consciousness?"

"No." Ianto paused, watching the people pass as he clutched the gun behind his back, then amended, "yes. Maybe. Some moments aren't real clear." But most of it was. And Ianto would be damned if he left his post to go not-sleep some more.

"That kind of trauma can take days to recover. You should be in bed."

At least Ianto knew the cramping wasn't permanent. The knowledge did little for the images that haunted him. "So should you. How soon will we know?"

"About Jean-Luc? Not sure. Padma would say he shouldn't attempt lifting a feather for a month, much less anything involved. Could take some time to know if there's any serious effect."

Scowling, Ianto noticed a doctor he didn't recognize, not that he knew all the rotations yet, not after just twenty-four hours, so he brushed it aside. Padma...he recognized that name. She was one of the healers at Avalon, a Grade 2, she was going to train Rani when she grew older. She was also a long-running affair of Stephen's. Ianto felt a stab of grief for his mentor, but he had hope -- they had taken more than they had killed -- perhaps Padma had been taken as well. "The fire spread quickly. Whoever took the kids must have left shortly before I arrived. Did you hear-"

A flash of black caught his eye at the waistline of the doctor he'd noticed before just as he was stopped by a nurse Ianto _did_ recognize, asking who he was and if he had identification. Ianto had his gun drawn before he could second-guess himself. "You! Stop right there."

Time froze for Ianto, the entire floor held their breath. It was what he had feared, but something he had prepared for since arriving at the hospital. It was why he had stood guard during surgery, it was why he barely slept.

They knew Jean-Luc lived.

Once again, Ianto found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. This time, he ducked. Spun, rather, as he was equally armed and fired a counter shot before Stephen. He felt the attacker's bullet burn across his arm, just grazed. And a sight better than dead center in his chest. While Ianto prepared for a second shot, their attacker dropped.

And the screaming began.

Amidst the panicked cries of the staff, patients, and visitors alike, Ianto grabbed the surgeon who had given him the t-shirt, ruined now; he hoped the doctor wouldn't be wanting it back. "I need you to prep Anthony for discharge."

"But he's-"

"In danger. As is everyone here if we stay."

The doctor quickly nodded and Ianto let him go, motioning to Stephen, "watch him. I'll get a wheelchair."

***

  
Twice while racing through the halls they spotted people running, and as Ianto figured, everyone who was running was not a friend of theirs. He had no idea how to get to his car without being spotted. Stephen was keeping pace rather well with his crutches, but Jean-Luc's dazed and slouched form in the wheelchair made for three easy targets. Jean-Luc had woken during the doctor's hasty discharge preparation, staying with them as they stopped by the pharmacy for antibiotics and pain relievers. Ianto hated wasting time, but he understood the necessity. And Jean-Luc would thank them later. The doctor had rushed the request, even going behind the counter to assist in gathering the medication. They'd split up then, and after spotting the armed men at the front door, become lost within the maze of the hospital trying to outrun their pursuers.

Ianto had never learned the doctor's name.

"Hey! Over here!"

A nurse Ianto recognized as one who had helped them when they first arrived beckoned them down an empty corridor. He was hesitant to follow, as was Stephen, but Ianto swore he recognized her from somewhere else. His mind was too frenzied to pinpoint where or when, however. After a moment's deliberation, and hearing footfalls behind them, they followed the nurse. She led them quickly out a staff-only exit and to a parked SUV.

"Get in, we'll be spotted if we don't hurry. Lay the two injured down in the back, cover them with these blankets. Should hide them from the CCTV in the car. This area's not covered, either."

Ianto quickly complied with that news, lifting Jean-Luc into the back, then Stephen followed. The wheelchair was folded and tucked inside and Ianto closed the door, running around to the passenger side and barely getting the door closed before the nurse sped off.

She handed him a dark tweed newsboy hat; why she had one in her car she said she wasn't sure, but it must clash with his attire something terrible. Ianto smiled his thanks and put it on, slouching in the seat as he tried to figure out what to do.

"You don't remember me."

It was a statement, not a question. Ianto knew he recognized the woman, but he couldn't place her, especially when they were escaping for Jean-Luc's life as well as their own. Stephen spoke up from the back for Ianto, however.

"I thought I taught you better. Never forget a date."

The woman laughed at Stephen, poking at the injury on Ianto's arm while he tried to figure out how he knew her -- he knew he hadn't dated her; contrary to what Stephen believed, he never forgot a date. "It doesn't look serious. There's a kit in the back for when you get to where you're going."

They pulled into an alley before Ianto could question her statements and she stopped the vehicle, handing him the keys. "Take it. I won't report it stolen so the police won't be looking for the plates. Should keep whoever's after you off this scent. They probably don't even know you're gone yet."

She was grinning so broadly Ianto couldn't help but smile in return. If what she had said was true, then she had probably saved their lives. And judging by the smile, she'd enjoyed the escapade. "I'm sorry, but how...?"

The nurse grew somber, pushing the keys into Ianto's hand. "My name's Nicola O'Dea. You spoke to me at my mother's memorial. You were the only one we didn't know, and the only one who seemed to really know her outside of family. We didn't know what she'd been killed doing, something illegal, we reckoned, since everyone made how she died sound so suspicious. You assured me she died with honor. I believed you then and I believe you now, Mr. Jones."

"Ianto, please." He took the keys and remembered Nicola's mother. Mary O'Dea, 52, biochemist. Hated Thai food, had a picture of her daughter and husband (Gerald) in her office, platinum frame. He was speechless, her act of kindness far repaying anything he had done during that time. If it needed to be repaid at all. "Nicola, I-"

"Take the car, Ianto. Look after your friends. Just call us even."

She kissed his cheek and jumped out of the driver's seat, leaving a stunned Ianto staring at the keys in his hand.

"Should have asked her for her number."

"0845 618 5496. Unless she's moved."

Stephen sputtered in disbelief from the rear of the vehicle as Ianto shifted into the driver's seat. He noted there was no GPS unit to remove -- not that he doubted Nicola, but he was wary enough to plan a stop out of town to thoroughly check it for tracking devices.

"Why did you go to her mother's memorial, Ianto?

"The honor was mine." Ianto eyed Stephen in the rearview mirror as he started the engine. "How is he?"

" _He's_ going to be sick."

He opened the glove box and found a sack for rubbish, passing it back to Jean-Luc who was at least conscious, if vomiting.

It was going to be a long drive to the only location he knew of safe enough to house Stephen and Jean-Luc and far too many things he didn't want to remember chased him with every bend in the road.


	6. Black

The unfamiliar black SUV was accosted the moment it pulled up to the home of Broderick Jones. It had been a long journey, over four hours including Ianto's thorough inspection of the vehicle for tracking devices (there were none), stops to check the injured, and multiple evasive maneuvers in case someone did in fact follow them from London.

His father's home was not on any map, nor did it appear in any directory or satellite image -- one of the rewards of the position and resources Ms. White had.

 _Had._

God, he wasn't going to think about that.

There were no neighbors -- none close, at any rate. Occasionally travelers chanced upon the house and, if Ianto's father was not at the store in the nearby village, he'd offer them tea and engage in old romantic tales of far-off worlds or in their own backyards. He had a passion for the legends, a love for the forgotten, and a knack for storytelling and elaboration. Although he entertained those who happened to drive up the nearly overgrown drive, when tea was over, they left, marshaled out with directions on how to get to Swansea. He valued his quiet home, and though it now had gained another adult and two mischievous boys, it was still his private sanctuary, his own castle on the hill.

Ianto hated disrupting the quiet, but he knew of no better place to stash his friends until they were well. His personnel records didn't contain the information, nor did Ms. White's -- not that she'd lived there in over twenty years. In fact, Ms. White's real name was not in any record that Ianto knew of. It was unconnected and untraceable.

And his father and sister knew of Avalon; Elaine already knew Jean-Luc and Stephen.

They would be safe.

"Uncle Ianto!"

The moment he stepped out of the vehicle, his legs were attacked by twin waist-high demon spawn who, this time, might very well inadvertently bring down their uncle. Jean-Luc had fallen asleep again, and Stephen not long after, thanks to the pain relievers Ianto had slipped into the cola they had picked up at a petrol station. It had been quiet in the SUV and Ianto was left alone with his thoughts.

Ms. White was dead.

Avalon was destroyed.

The children were gone.

His headache had returned with a fury, the tablets he had taken from Owen left in his car back at the hospital in London. Too much thinking, too much time, too much quiet. He'd nearly called Jack -- he had his mobile out of his pocket, ready to return one of his many calls, but after staring at Jack's repeated name his phone's history (a stare broken to swerve back onto the road), he canceled it and slipped it back into his pocket.

And thought.

A gasp distracted him from his struggle to remain standing after the onslaught of his nephews, nearly making him tumble to the ground with them.

"Boys! Back inside. Go find the new pictures you painted to show Ianto."

Elaine. She was staring at his arm, but that would hardly be the biggest shock, Ianto imagined. While refueling he had taken a moment to clean it up -- it really wasn't much of an injury -- but the shirt was still stained. She was going to worry.

God, he'd killed a man. He wasn't going to think about that either.

His father had followed Elaine out, but Ianto couldn't look at him...couldn't look at him and not think about the red-stained white blouse. Not thinking. Ianto gathered himself; he had friends to take care of, a focus like that grounded him. He straightened with the weight of the world pressing on his skull and walked around the vehicle, motioning for his father and Elaine to follow. "Help me get them inside."

Carefully, they got Stephen out, who after his "nap" was a sight more able-bodied. At least able-bodied enough to wobble on his crutches and glare at Ianto before allowing Elaine to assist him into the house. Jean-Luc took a bit more effort, but barely woke as he was carefully supported by Broderick and Ianto into the house and onto the couch ("M'not sleeping an'more. Don't put me to bed...") across from the fire place, blazing warm as the night chill sank around them. It was a compromise; Ianto knew there was no way Jean-Luc was not going to fall asleep again, but he didn't have the will to argue with him anymore on such a ridiculous point.

Ianto settled him in, drawing a blanket (his favorite from his childhood, battered and worn but so soft and warm) over Jean-Luc's shoulders. He gently checking the gauze on the back of Jean-Luc's head -- no worse for wear after the hasty travel, it appeared. Brushing a lock from Jean-Luc's face, remembering the fear he had refused to feel at the thought of Jean-Luc dying in the fight for the kids, Ianto smiled at the pale-blue eyes staring back. "Sleep. You're safe here."

"Ianto? What happened?"

Ianto pulled away as Jean-Luc started to speak, effectively silencing him. He wasn't running away, Ianto knew he wasn't, but he wasn't sure how to respond and he couldn't deal with how the other man would react. So maybe he was afraid. But he couldn't face Jean-Luc's pain -- Ianto couldn't look him in the eyes and tell him of the dead and lost; Ianto couldn't share that he was happy Jean-Luc had survived where the others hadn't. Stephen was sitting in his father's chair, leg propped up on the ottoman. He looked comfortable; Ianto supposed that was all that could be asked for at the moment. At least no one was going to attempt to kill him.

"Gareth, Bryce." Ianto squatted down so that he was on eye-level with his nephews who had returned with pieces of artwork in hand. "You know how when your tummy hurts and you don't want to play?"

His nephews dutifully nodded, clutching their tummies, and Ianto really hoped there wouldn't be sympathetic vomiting; there had been enough in the SUV on the way there. "My friends, they have hurts and don't feel like playing. So we need to be quiet and let them sleep."

"Can we play mommy?"

"We can be quiet. Just like mices."

They raced off to their room to do what Ianto figured could range from gathering blocks and blankets to build a fort or preparing tools for the apocalypse. With his nephews, it could be anything. He just hoped it was quiet.

Elaine and his father stood in the doorway, waiting for him. His sister looked cross, or worried, or both. And his father...Ianto knew he had to tell them. Was it only yesterday? It felt like years since he had watched Avalon burn, since he'd choked on smoke in Ms. White's office and looked at the ruin. It seemed as improbable as staring at the robotic shells of former coworkers march past, improbable and incomprehensible. Images sharp, over-processed, slowed in time...and every moment captured with frightening accuracy to be replayed in crystal clear recall every time he closed his eyes.

Ianto felt in his trousers pocket, fingering for the memento he'd carried with him since Avalon as he searched for anything to say. His sister and father were staring at him but god, he couldn't talk. He didn't even _like_ the woman. But oddly, he found himself staring at the floor, her ring clutched in his hand.

"Mum's dead." Was that even his voice? Surely it wasn't; he didn't call her that. And he had more composure; his voice wasn't that hoarse and broken. That wasn't him, just like it wasn't him who had shot the man in the hospital between the eyes and it wasn't a beaten body underneath the massive oak table in Ms. White's office.

Fuck, but it was.

The silence was shattered by the sharp crash of one of Stephen's crutches, Ianto caught the movement in the corner of his eye, but whether it was accidental or Stephen had heard he wasn't sure. He didn't care.

"Oh god..."

Elaine's muffled whimper ran like fingernails over a chalkboard, setting him on edge as Ianto raised his hand, offering the ring to his father. He wasn't sure why his sister cried; the woman hadn't even been able to remember her birthday. Even when Ianto had circled it in her calendar. She was nothing to the family, never had been. Waste of a summer.

So why couldn't he look his father in the eye?

"So it comes to this."

The steady voice of his father as he took the ring from Ianto's open (shaking) hand finally was enough to pull Ianto's attention from the floor. "I'm sorry-"

"Avalon?"

Broderick's question threw Ianto and drowned out Elaine. Not that Ianto doubted his father's knowledge of Avalon. But it was the last question he expected. No question of how. Of why. No protesting. No denial. No blaming Ianto for being too late, for not saving her as he had Stephen and Jean-Luc.

No surprise.

"Destroyed."

"The children?"

"Gone." Ianto answered his father's rapid questions, feeling as unbalanced as when Jean-Luc had shouted, only in a slightly different capacity but with the same headache clouding his ability to reason through it. It felt _off_ and Ianto knew he wasn't prepared or able to deal with why.

"You know what you have to do then."

"What?" His mind instantly rebelled, Ianto literally stumbling back a step, away from his father and what had just been spoken. Elaine's eyes were as wide as Ianto's felt, tears streaking down her face in grief for Ms. White. Ianto felt nothing but scorn for the grief of the one who never was. He deliberately ignored the cries she tried to muffle behind her hand as she remembered, just as well as he, what they had been told when they were children. "No, the office is gone. There's nothing left."

"It's not gone. You have been trained. You must-"

"No." Ianto remained emphatic, struggling to remain calm despite it slipping through his fingers like fine silk. His control was gone; any hold he had on the fraying ends since that first moment of fear for Jean-Luc back at the Hub were lost. He felt it, too, the unraveling of everything, of the constants, of the life he'd struggled to build at Torchwood One, then the rebuild at Torchwood Three. Ianto was liking that life, _his_ life at Cardiff. It wasn't perfect -- he still disliked Owen, and Gwen's "humanity" was going to one day choke him when he least expected it, but it was his life, his steady, dysfunctional, dangerous and chaotic life making coffee.

Jack had let him choose it. Oh god, _choice_. Ianto could scarcely breathe and he could feel his blood pressure rise, an almost tangible sensation filling his head with cotton and rage, drawing on the ache until all he could see were rose petals and his father's eyes. "No. My duty is to Torchwood Three."

"Ianto Llacheu Jones."

Broderick's voice was both reproachful and sympathetic, a combination of reluctance and firm anger, neither of which helped Ianto's temper which was bubbling just beneath the surface, so ready and so _tired_ of the lack of say in the decisions in his life. She had mentioned it, long ago, but long ago was distant history; at the time, he had brushed it aside, favoring the belief that she had wanted him around. Ianto did not believe in fate. He believed he created his own destiny, and yet nearly every aspect of his life had manipulated him into this point, this choice. Every moment he'd spent with Ms. White, every aspect of summer holidays in London...it hadn't been a gambit at a relationship. It had been teaching, training, educating him in both Avalon and Torchwood. It had been...preparation. She hadn't wanted to be a mother. She had wanted simply to pave his way to hell.

"Your mother-"

"She is not my mother!" Ianto couldn't stop himself once he started, voice rising and strengthening until he was shouting. Shouting at his father, shouting against fate, shouting against the façade of choice and disillusioned childhood. He understood and it _hurt_ \-- hurt worse than his arm, hurt worse than his head, hurt worse than the aches and pains he'd be feeling the next day It was vibrant and it eclipsed what small measure of restraint he had. His voice filled the hall, filled the room, stretched out until it shook the foundations of the family house, rattling free any taint of Ms. White's ghost from the walls, any moment she'd spent passing over the steps, over the floors. He gestured wildly with his hands into the room, at Jean-Luc and Stephen, as though to banish the spirits of the dead. If he could banish her permanently from his mind, he would. "She is their mother, not mine!"

Silence filtered through the house, tasting sour to Ianto...repulsive, milk left out too long in the sun. His heart stuttered in his throat, strangling, making it even harder to breathe as his chest heaved like he'd just run from London to his father's home. He felt sick, sick in his stomach, sick to his soul, sick for what he had just said and to whom he had just said it to. His father's eyes were cast down, staring at the ring clutched in his fingers. What Ianto had thought he'd suffered, what he'd thought he'd lost...it was small compared to what his father must feel, what he must have lost so many years ago when she chose to follow her own mother's path and became Ms. White, Secretary of Research and Resource Allocation. It was unusual, it was antiquated, but the office governed such secrets that they had passed down his mother's genealogy until her death. No one in that family lived a long life; his father knew that as well as Ianto. Broderick had known it when he'd fallen in love with her, and now he cried for her and for the unforgivable words spoken by his son.

"Quiet, Uncle Ianto!"

"Your friends need sleeping."

The twin's tag-team comments startled Ianto, making him jump, the distraction dragging him from his father into the room where Stephen had awkwardly stood. He stared at Ianto, clutching a stuffed red dragon under one arm; Jean-Luc's full attention (green stuffed dragon resting beside him) was also directed at Ianto, who only felt guilt and shame. To have said it to his father and sister...to have said it in front of the ones she had died to protect...and now his nephews, tiny warriors in their own right held their blankets between the two injured and reminded him of what he'd earlier requested.

Guilt and shame.

Ianto did the only thing he could think of -- the only course available under such scrutiny and remorse.

He fled, running out of the house, away from his father and sister, away from any reminder of Ms. White. Ianto had nowhere to go, not really, but he turned to his childhood escape: a collection of rocks, some large, some small, some rounded smooth and others jagged. It was his place, his fortress, looking out over the fields he'd imagined great tales where he was the warrior, the handsome prince, and hero who'd save all of Wales from evil, the one who would protect his family and destroy the ones threatening his home.

He was a coward.

And on those rocks of dreams, Ianto wept.

***

His sister ventured out a few hours later and draped his favorite blanket over his shoulders, stolen from Jean-Luc. Ianto hoped he'd put up a protest -- it was a good blanket, Jean-Luc should have hated parting with it. Of course, his sister knew him well and the small comfort was appreciated.

She didn't say anything about what he'd said earlier or about their father, for which Ianto was grateful. She just sat beside him on his rock and watched the moon play Houdini with the clouds. When it became apparent she wasn't leaving, Ianto offered a corner of the blanket to her, wrapping an arm around her as she pulled it tight over her shoulders.

"Do you hate her?"

Ianto considered his answer, sighing as he knew he couldn't lie nor evade no matter how much he wished to avoid the conversation with his sister. "Sometimes."

"She's responsible for Gavin's death."

"I know."

"And Lisa's."

Elaine wasn't entirely accurate, but Ianto felt it unnecessary to correct her. He still wasn't ready to relinquish all guilt for her death, even if his Lisa had died that day in London . But Elaine didn't need to know the lengths he'd gone to save Lisa. He couldn't deal with her condemnation or disappointment for such a foolish, precarious venture. She had lost Gavin; the knowledge that Ianto might have unleashed a second round of terror upon their family might have been enough to lose her forever. And he couldn't risk that; he didn't have the courage. Not now. "I know."

"So why do we cry?"

Ianto didn't answer -- couldn't, not for the time it took the clouds to cloak the moon again, then flee, running from its light. How brave, the moon, standing alone against the night. The simplest answer was the most honest, and Ianto eventually came around to responding, his voice rough from the tears she somehow knew had been shared and exhaustion. "Cause she was our mother."

She acknowledged by tightening her arms around him. Ianto wouldn't call it clinging but it was the closest description he could name. Ms. White had been their mother, in all things but action. He supposed that in death, one could forget her absence in favor of fond memory, or at least gratitude for giving life. That was something.

***

He heard the crick-thump approaching from the house, but didn't turn. Stephen. Ianto supposed he should feel guilty for hiding outside, away from the family and away from his father, forcing the invalid to venture off the chair and into the outdoors darkened by night, but he didn't. He couldn't.

Stephen thumped his way to a stone across from Ianto, propping up his injured leg on a tree stump after setting his crutches on the ground beside him. Ianto should feel bad for maneuvering the conversation to one where Stephen would feel uncomfortable, but his mentor had sought Ianto, Ianto hadn't sought him. Ianto's stone beneath the tree was his comfort and his retreat, a place where the world dimmed and he was alone with his thoughts.

"It makes sense, now."

Ianto turned his head, ever so slowly to stare at Stephen, but didn't say anything. Nothing made sense; it hadn't since the kids had started disappearing. To have Stephen say that just seemed simple-minded.

"Ms. White. Every year, late spring, she'd make sure Avalon shined more brilliantly than any other time, that the children were on their best behavior and the teachers taught with more enthusiasm. Security increased; so did cook staff and janitorial. And her temper grew -- not one dropped tissue or crooked tie. I couldn't understand it -- all this work for two kids who she said were 'important'?" Stephen chuckled, a low, warm sound that Ianto couldn't ever remember hearing before. But then, things had changed and Ianto was no longer a boy. "You weren't 'gifted', per say. The teachers didn't know what to make of it, and the kids hated you for it. We had a pool, actually, but no one bet you were Ms. White's children.   Highest bid was on a ploy by Ms. White to get the kids interacting with the non-gifted to nip any elitism."

"Viviene," Ianto interrupted, needing a break from the storytelling. He wasn't sure what Stephen's purpose was, but stories of his mother preparing for their visit wasn't warming his heart towards her any more than her actions at home.

"Sorry?"

"My mother's name." With a grim smile at why he no longer felt compelled to keep it secret but at the same time inordinately happy that she was no longer Ms. White but the mother he was supposed to have had, Ianto rested his elbows on his knees as he watched Stephen. "Her name was Viviene Rhodes. You didn't hobble over here to tell me about my mother's cleaning habits, I assume."

"Viviene? Yes, that was smart to protect her family..."

As Stephen trailed off in thought (or because of the pain medication, or both), Ianto bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying anything more he'd regret that night while waiting for the other man to continue. He received a look for his bluntness, but Ianto was sore and exhausted and really in no mood to hear stories glorifying his mother or excusing her behavior.

"She said you were important. No one understood why, then Jean-Luc took interest."

Ianto couldn't help it; he blushed. It was too dark for Stephen to notice, but he laughed anyway. He'd probably intended for the remark to strike a nerve.

"You misunderstand me, Ianto. Everyone was waiting for the explanation. Thirty seconds with Jean-Luc and we'd all know. But, there was no answer; Jean-Luc failed and you remained buried within your secrets. Oh sure, your public mind took a while to train. But you intrigued Jean-Luc -- you naturally blocked him on some level, and you know there are few with secrets from him. You became important to him. And with him, so too the tide of Avalon."

Wary of where Stephen was leading the conversation, Ianto hesitated. "What are you saying?"

"Avalon stands behind you, Ianto, if you choose to follow that path."

"I'm needed at Torchwood Three." Ianto didn't bother mentioning that Avalon was _gone_. There was nothing left for the office to even lead except for two tiny Torchwoods. He drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders, wrapping himself in comfort. "You would be far more suited."

"Me? I'm a Guardian, not a leader. Besides, I know nothing of Torchwood."

"I can't leave Cardiff." Ianto turned away from Stephen's gaze, the weight of it suffocating. The children were still out there, as were Lana and everyone else they'd taken from Avalon. He didn't know how much Stephen and Jean-Luc knew, but the children were depending on them for salvation. Were depending on Ms. White. It made him sick to even consider what might be done to the kids. His experience with Torchwood and aliens gave him too many colorful insights into the world of science and greed. But he couldn't leave his team, and he couldn't think to lead both Torchwood and Avalon, although the notion of being Owen's ultimate boss did strike a tone of amusement. The power would be nice, but it was never anything he'd wanted to have. He'd believed Ms. White invulnerable, as any child believed their parents when she'd told him of his duty, and it hurt to consider just how wrong he had been. And now, duty presented itself within a circle of fire, beckoning and taunting the peace Ianto had sought upon the rock of his youth.

They were depending on _him_.

"Perhaps you won't have to."

Ianto looked up at Stephen in surprise, but his friend's attention was focused on his struggle to stand, manipulating his crutches until they fit comfortably beneath his arms. He hopped to Ianto's side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"All you have to do is ask me, Ianto. But becoming the next Ms. White, that's in your blood."

With a squeeze, Stephen left, leaving Ianto staring after in the dark. He didn't move, not for a long while, not until the cold crept in and he drew his limbs closer to the warmth of his core. Confusion slowly faded away, drifting on the wind with a single rose petal, falling softly to his knee as determination and planning warred with fatigue and concern.

 _Your choice is ours, Ianto. And our choice is yours._

***

Ianto wasn't sure of the time, he'd lost track amidst answers and reasoning, but the sun had slipped above the hills an hour ago, muffled in cloud until she showed her face again. It was early. His family was awake, however; he could hear them in the kitchen preparing breakfast. He took the stairs to his room, showered and shaved and threw on the best clothes he had that were clean: dark denims and a black long sleeved tee. Not ideal, but it would have to work; he didn't keep suits at his father's anymore.

Sneakers completed the look.

He took the steps two at a time down, nearly twisting an ankle on one of his nephews' toys. Ianto didn't look at anyone in the kitchen, just grabbed his father's car keys from the hook and set his mobile and the SUV keys on the counter. Message clear: he was not to be contacted.

He paused only to check in on Jean-Luc, his friend's eyes blurry with sleep as he requested the time. Laughing softly as he ruffled his hair, Ianto told him to go back to sleep.

Ianto left the house, taking his father's car.

He had made his choice.

***

Hours later, nearly half a day, Ianto walked slowly up the drive, empty coffee cup in hand. He'd stopped by his father's store (closed, but Ianto wasn't all that surprised; besides, he had a key) and brewed a quick pot, needing the caffeine and to calm his nerves. He didn't know when it'd started, that dependency on coffee to calm him, but it worked. Seemed to work for the team as well. He left his father's car at the store, needing more time to think about his decision (and to wake up), the short conversation he'd had, and the plan revolving around one man and his offer. It had been Stephen who'd inspired it. Actually, it was probably what Stephen had considered when he'd told Ianto that he would do anything.

Anything.

Ianto was about to ask him for a great deal more.

Broderick was waiting in the drive, he must have watched Ianto's approach, arms crossed and looking as stern as Ianto had ever seen him. For a brief moment, Ianto considered it was in regards to the car, but he quickly shook himself of that notion. His father knew why Ianto had left.

As Ianto approached his father, his steps slowed, regret for his earlier actions sinking his heels into the packed earth and browned grass. Inappropriate and hurtful, but hardly inexcusable. Raising his chin to meet his father's eyes, Ianto nodded once, knowing his father would understand.

He'd made his choice. He had no idea what the rest of the faeries' words had meant, but he had made his choice. _Your choice is ours, Ianto._

To say Ianto was stunned by the sudden relieved smile or the massive hug he found himself wrapped in would have been an understatement. Affection, while common in their house, had not been expected now -- not after what had happened, not after what had been said. But some of Ianto's apprehension drifted away as he dropped the coffee cup and returned the hug in equal force, both attempting to squeeze away all the hurt and pain and loss.

His father forgave him. That meant more than the Queen's soft condolence for his mother.

"There's nothing to forgive." Ianto jerked back in surprise, but his father just smiled, patting him on the cheek.

"Come now. You just spent all night in the cold. Give me credit for knowing my son." Broderick paused for a moment, then asked as if just noticing, "Where's my car?"

"Back at the store." Gesturing over his shoulder, Ianto indicated the way he'd just came, unnecessary as his father knew full-well where the store was, but the movement felt good. He was exhausted and in need of some pain meds for his head and the lingering stiffness, but he didn't have time to contemplate sleep. The motions roused him even if they felt slightly uncontrolled. He needed time to process; he needed time to plan and talk with Stephen. There was a list of questions in his mind, everything he needed to know, some of them questions raised by the Queen in regards to the state of Avalon and Torchwood. Ianto had waited, consciously _not_ pulling at his attire (he'd nearly been turned away before he'd mentioned Ms. White and R &RA), while she informed the Prime Minister of Ms. White's death. There wasn't much the Queen had direct control of anymore, but the office of Research and Resource Allocation remained under her authority. Had since Queen Victoria had founded Torchwood. Outside the government, well under Her Majesty's thumb.

She then informed the Prime Minister of the new Secretary, Mr. Black.

"I needed-"

Ianto froze as a familiar figure crossed over the front porch, breath lodging in his throat as he noticed the additional SUV parked next to the one gifted in their escape from London. This wasn't right. He was desperate for small comfort, grasping for normalcy and his own mind was playing tricks on him. "Jack?" It was too much to ask for, too much to hope for. The vision walking hesitantly towards him couldn't be real, the hands weren't really stuffed in the pockets of the trousers, and that most certainly was not the concerned face of Jack looking back at him while hands pulled him forward by his shoulders into an embrace.

It smelled like Jack.

"Ianto."

God, it sounded like Jack.

Fingertips touched his jaw, lightly climbing a path until they brushed his ears, scratching over his sideburns. Lips pressed softly against his, tender but real. Chaste, as kisses went, until Ianto's startled hands turned needy, clutching the strong back until he was certain the nail marks would still be there in the morning, despite the layers of clothing. It _tasted_ like Jack. His tongue told him so, sweeping over and through and around, Jack's playing just as fiercely in return. It was real. It had to be real.

"Look! Uncle Ianto's kissing!"

"Is he our new uncle?"

"Are they married?"

"Can I be flower boy?"

Jack laughed quietly against Ianto's lips, pulling back just far enough to give Ianto a look over, better and closer than any scan Owen might have performed. Ianto felt raw and exposed, traits he typically hated, but for the moment he couldn't be bothered with it. He simply rested against Jack's hands. He'd just met the Queen in a t-shirt and sneakers; he refused to be embarrassed by his nephews.

"Cute kids."

"Just wait till you wake up with your shoes fed to the goats and your trousers used to dry their finger paints."

More laughter, louder this time. "Where's their father?"

Ianto shook his head, keeping his voice low as he stared at a button on Jack's shirt peeking out from the navy waistcoat. "Dead. Torchwood One."

He glanced up when the fingers running over his jaw stilled, surprise and perhaps a deeper comprehension crossing Jack's features. Ianto had never noticed it before, or maybe had never put a finger on it. He doubted the rest of the team did either. Jack was remarkably poor at maintaining an even face. Unless facing death, of course, and then it was the straight-faced Jack where only anger and indignation showed through. Ianto rather liked that, those glimpses of humanity before time and experience tried to banish it. As much as Jack claimed Gwen was around for the human connection, the touch that Torchwood lacked, Ianto knew it was as much a defense as any gun in his hand. Jack felt and understood; a far more painful punishment than ignorance.

"Why are you here, Jack?" Ianto knew how, or at least he assumed how. He had left his mobile when he'd set out for London earlier that morning. Jack must have traced it just as he'd tracked Ianto to Lana's that night long ago. But that didn't explain why Jack hadn't waited. Ianto had said he'd come back, and no matter how he wished Jack had been there, he could take care of himself. He had taken care, of himself and Stephen and Jean-Luc. Ianto might feel offended if he wasn't enjoying Jack's calming presence. It almost made the headache go away.

Jack had the grace to look sheepish. "You didn't answer your mobile for days and you weren't at home. So I tracked your car to London and your phone to here. Knew I had the right place when your sister pulled a gun on me."

"She...what?" Ianto remembered who the family was guarding, and changed his mind from defending Jack from his sister's actions. "She should have shot you."

"Glad she didn't." The smile dissolved from Jack's face, leaving compassion and that concern Ianto had first seen behind. "They told me about your mother, Ianto."

Ianto wasn't actually sure what his father or sister had told Jack. They most certainly wouldn't have told of his trip to London. They'd kept secrets for far too long to spill to anyone off the street. Ianto had never told them about Jack; he wasn't even sure if there had been anything to tell. So he played it safe, assuming they had implied he'd gone for a drive to clear his mind. Get away. Seek some alone time. He couldn't spot anyone still on the porch; he'd have to quietly ask his father or Elaine what they'd said at a later time. "We should go in. They're probably waiting for us."

Jack nodded, dropping his hands to shove them back in his pockets, hearing the request for distance despite Ianto's failure to voice it. As he turned to walk back into the house, Ianto couldn't stop himself from calling out to him. It was hardly fair of him; Jack had searched for him just because he was what, worried? He didn't think Jack _did_ worried, but maybe that was jealousy. "Jack?"

Predictably, Jack turned, offering Ianto a shallow smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'm glad you're here."

This time, Jack's smile was real.

***

Ianto's father tapped his pipe after dinner. The boys were playing with the swords Ianto had gifted them over a year ago and the others were seated in the living room on every available surface. Ianto poured glasses of cognac, passing them to his father and Jack; Stephen passed and Jean-Luc wasn't offered any, to his dismay. Ianto grinned but didn't fall for Jean-Luc's pout. He was still recovering from the blow to his head and Ianto would be damned if he mixed medicine and alcohol -- who knew what that would do to Jean-Luc's gift. Stephen refused to allow Jean-Luc to test it, not until he was recovered from the physical injury. Jean-Luc fought him, but didn't disobey; Ianto believed him as scared as the rest of them. Not that Jean-Luc would ever admit it, but Ianto knew his friend.

They hadn't talked about Ianto's trip to London that day; Jack knew nothing. He did know about Avalon, however, and Ms. White. Truth be told, Ianto kind of thought Jack believed himself primed to take over for Ms. White. Wouldn't he be disappointed to find out that a Mr. Black already existed.

He sat down beside Jack on the couch, feeling a bit brazen after Jack had kissed him in front of his family, cradling his own glass of cognac while Elaine joined the conversation as well, eyes red and looking as grainy as Ianto's felt. Bryce and Gareth chased each other around, Jack doing nothing but encouraging them, until they ran off to their room to defend the castle from dragons, their swords buzzing, chiming and squawking as they went.

"I want one of those swords."

Ianto smirked at Jack's whine, typical Jack. He could picture Jack getting angry with Owen and pulling out a plastic sword, bopping him with it until Owen cried.

He nearly laughed at the thought.

"Ianto ever tell you he fences? Quite skilled. Best I've seen in all my years of training."

Glaring at Stephen and whatever he was attempting to do (had Jean-Luc told him about the tea-boy thing?), Ianto said nothing, just sipped his drink. He didn't need Stephen singing praises, he didn't need Jean-Luc shooting dirty looks at Jack (still didn't trust him, it would appear), and he didn't need his father studying Jack over his pipe. Elaine had already pulled a gun on him (though she hated all things Torchwood, so Ianto supposed she might have cause). How much more threatening an environment could Jack have walked in on?

"Jack knows a thing or two about blades as well, don't you Jack?" Ianto's father gestured with his pipe at Jack, then settled back into his chair to puff on it before speaking again. "See you found your immortality."

Pins dropping in Cardiff could have been heard for all the silence that stretched in the Jones household, save for Jack coughing after a wrong sip of cognac burned fire down his trachea. Painful, Ianto had to assume. Jack flinched away from Ianto's touch so Ianto just let him cough. It didn't make sense until he figured out Jack must assume Ianto had told his father about Jack's ... situation. But Ianto hadn't. He hadn't told any in his family about Jack. Perhaps his mother had commented on him to Broderick?

"Don't quite know what you've heard, but I think you must be mistaken, Mr. Jones," Jack wheezed out. It was good cognac; a waste to not swallow it properly.

"No, I don't believe I am. I know you by another name, but I recognize your face. You brought down a kingdom with your questing and your debauchery and now you've set your eyes on my son."

"Dad!?" Stunned, Ianto glanced at Elaine who appeared as confused as he felt. He'd be certain it was another story, another fanciful tale of his father's imagination but his hand had slipped to Jack's thigh when he'd started at what his father had said and he could feel the muscles tensed and ready to fight. Or flee. Had his father spoken the truth? Broderick just smiled behind his pipe as though he had not just implied he had known Jack before. Before when? A kingdom? Ianto knew Jack had a sordid past, his tales often times were so filled with ... debauchery ... that they were hard to believe.

But a kingdom?

"That was a long time ago." Jack didn't look at anyone, just stared at his glass, his voice as remorseful as Ianto had ever heard it. Not even after the faery and Estelle.

Ianto stared at his father, knowing Stephen and Jean-Luc were flipping back and forth between the parties like a tennis match, but Ianto was focused on his father. Jack managed to bring down a kingdom? And his father knew about it? Ianto could barely draw breath, and from Elaine's ashen appearance she wasn't faring much better. The smell of pipe smoke, usually so calming, was strangling, heavy and thick. It sickened Ianto.

"For some."

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?"

"Oh, no, we never met."

Bizarre as the situation was, Ianto noted that neither revealed any actual information, which he found far more frustrating than the revelations. Fighting back the urge to laugh, inappropriate and slightly hysteric, Ianto tried to rationally filter through the information. He failed, each time. His father was not who he said he was. _Ianto_ was not who he thought he was. Jack was never who Ianto thought he was, but then Ianto hadn't ever believed him to be anything other than unknown. Had his mother known? Is that why she chose to stay in London?

Catching Elaine's eye, Ianto saw that she seemed to have the same thought he did, perhaps even a moment quicker without having to consider Jack's thigh trembling with tension beneath her hand. "I'm going to check on the boys," she said as she excused herself from the room.

That figured. She would leave him to deal with the complete upheaval of their lives, just like she abandoned him to Torchwood and Avalon. What was it? Did he fall through the Rift? Flit around through time with the Doctor? (Now wouldn't that be ironic, given the initial purpose of Torchwood?) God, was Broderick even human? Were he and Elaine? What would one call themself if they were half alien, half human? Would he have to turn himself over to Torchwood and spend the remainder of his days running Avalon and Torchwood from a cell?

Ianto stood and grabbed the decanter from the locked chest where the alcohol was stored, safe away from the inquisitive twins, and brought it back to the couch. In silence he refilled Jack's glass and his own. Stephen hadn't said anything, nor had Jean-Luc, but then, what was there to say? And Jack and Ianto were sitting on Jean-Luc's bed. Ianto sat back down; if his leg was pressing against Jack's a little firmer than before, well, that could have been an accident, not an attempt to calm or ground himself against the chaos of the past few minutes, the day, the week.

Jack pressing back could have been an accident as well.

" _You_ named it Avalon."

Ianto's father nodded at Jack. "It is fitting, don't you think?"

Maybe the questions of reality Ianto had earlier pondered were true. Maybe he was tired, hallucinating, maybe all this wasn't real.

But his mother was dead. Ianto knew that without a doubt. He had _seen_ it. And Avalon had been destroyed. His father knew that. In fact, his father was acting like he had always known that.

Jack drew a breath beside him -- the long, calming breath Ianto had heard him use when Owen was being a particularly nasty prat and swallowed the contents of the glass in one drink. "What happened before, that is not my intent with your son, Mr. Jones. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need some fresh air."

Ianto watched as Jack stepped out the back door, headed for the rocks and trees Ianto usually sought for solace. He'd be amused, if the situation hadn't left him dry-mouthed, confused and angry to the point of screaming. He didn't scream though, he was too tired to scream. Instead, Ianto faced his father wearily, "I don't suppose you'll give me any answers."

His father just smiled, shaking his head. "What would be the point of providing the ending when your journey has just begun?"

He didn't understand his father any better than he did the faeries. With an apologetic look at Jean-Luc and Stephen (who subtly waved him on in understanding), Ianto left the room to find his sister. They had to talk. And then he'd have to find Jack. But Elaine first. Maybe she remembered something, anything, from their childhood. Or maybe their mother had been more open to her than Ianto. What had been said could not be undone, and Ianto needed answers.

***

His conversation with Elaine hadn't lasted long. She knew nothing of what their father had said, nor did she know the purpose outside of the obvious "don't hurt my kid" speech that Ianto was far too old for. She asked what it meant, Ianto didn't have any idea.

He picked up two blankets as he walked out the patio door; his father and Stephen were talking about something, but Ianto didn't stay to listen. Jack was standing near Ianto's rock, staring out over Wales as night began to fall.

"Not your usual vantage point." Ianto held out the blankets, smiling as Jack reached for Ianto's favorite. Seemed on some level Jack knew him better than he thought. Or it was a lucky guess and it just looked the most comfortable. Ianto wrapped the other blanket around his shoulders, curling into its trapped warmth. He didn't dare touch Jack; he didn't know if it was allowed or even wanted. So they stood side by side, staring at the cloud-covered sky where the stars' light were muted and dimmed. "I'm sorry for what happened in there. I--"

"No. Don't apologize for your father. I haven't ..." Jack seemed to lose the momentum he had going, faltering until he restarted. "I haven't...there's been moments in my life I'm not proud of, moments when I wasn't a good man. I just never expected to meet someone now who knew me then, least of all your father."

"When was--"

"Don't, Ianto. Don't ask me when."

"I deserve--"

"You do," Jack interrupted, finally turning to look at Ianto, "but not from me."

Ianto had to bite his tongue to keep from arguing, but he knew he'd never get an answer from Jack. Not that he believed he'd ever get an answer from his father, but Ianto supposed Jack had a point despite his curiosity and his need to understand himself, his history, hell, his family. His father had never lied, though, at least not to his knowledge. That was one of the few things Ianto was clinging to. Broderick had said that his parents were long deceased as were the rest of his family, which was why they had no cousins, no aunts and uncles on his side. It made sense, in a small way. If he were from another time, then they probably would be dead.

He stood beside Jack, shoulders just touching, staring at the expanse of rolling hills and shadowed valleys. Jack had admitted he hadn't always been a good person. What he had done Ianto wasn't sure, but Ianto didn't believe him to be a bad man now. A bad man wouldn't make the decisions Jack made, he wouldn't make the sacrifices. He might have motive ( _the 21st century is when it all changes_ ) but the motive never endangers, never threatens. The bigger picture. A bad man wouldn't make good of the bigger picture.

On the other hand, Ianto had been far from good. He took a breath, then plunged on, proving either to himself or Jack that he really was as great a monster as he'd claimed Jack to be. "Ms. White ordered me to spy on you, on Torchwood Three; I agreed because it got me what I wanted. I was given your complete Torchwood file. I knew who you were that first day in the Information Center. I filed weekly reports with Ms. White, everything from personnel to inventory. I answered all of her follow-up questions."

Jack didn't yell or scream or shoot. He just stood there, motionless, solid as the trees next to them. It grated on Ianto's nerves, the silence, screeching like fingernails down a chalkboard, the seconds ticking past and flowing into minutes, reaching for morning with all its strength. He considered leaving, considered allowing Jack to stand in the silence he wanted. Or did he want more? Ianto's resignation? Did he wish to blackmail? Force him to do nothing more than make the coffee and muck the weevil cells?

"She never asked me about the ghost machine," Jack mused.

"There is a reason it's locked up in your safe."

"And the glove?"

"The same."

Jack turned so fast on Ianto he nearly stumbled backwards, as it was his shaky balance made him teeter a moment before Jack's hands on his shoulders steadied him. "Owen was never let go. You requested I hire Tosh, she wasn't on Ms. White's list. And every time I've died? She never asked me about those. You've seen, you know. And yet she never asked."

"Jack, I-"

Ianto was cut off, not by the blow he was expecting and actually flinched from, but by Jack's lips crashing down on his, so hard their teeth clicked in a lack of grace so clumsy yet so wanton it shot like wildfire through Ianto's veins. Jack's grip tightened, fingers digging into his shoulders, then slid the bruises down Ianto's arms, dragging with it the heat melting Ianto from the inside. A sharp pain forced Ianto to pull away, grimacing as he rubbed his arm and killing whatever slim chance he had that night at arousal -- he needed to sleep and his body knew it, no matter how much he wanted Jack. "Sorry, nicked while we were running."

Hands slid over his arms, searching and finding the gauze and tape covering the injury. Elaine had looked at it earlier that morning and declared it healing, though perhaps now not as much. It didn't bother Ianto, but it apparently bothered Jack who kept gently touching, kept looking. "Jack?"

Jack glanced away finally from Ianto's arm and instantly stilled, eyes locked not on Ianto but over his shoulder, into the tree rising from the ground behind. The gnarled old growth had been there for as long as records recalled. His face was twisted, not in fear, but an acceptance of doom and the determination to conquer it.

"Jack?" Ianto turned to look and saw what had stunned Jack: a tiny, flitting creature hovered just over his shoulder on filigree wings, brilliant white as a star twinkling in the night. "It won't hurt us. It's just ... watching."

Ianto was treated to a hard stare and stony silence, all trace of the earlier lust gone, replaced by blank disconnect. "Watching?"

Glaring at the faery, Ianto watched, heart still and breath stopped, as it zipped between his face and Jack's. It flitted back and forth so quickly he could barely keep his eyes on it before it disappeared, a rose petal falling softly on the wind. Jack's attention drifted with the petal, fluttering and floating until it reached the ground between their feet.

"They've watched you before. At the Hub. You know what they can do and you never told me?"

He pulled away from Jack's hands which were shaking with anger and adrenaline, directed at whom Ianto wasn't sure but by the low-pitched growl, Ianto sought less volatile ground. Put that way, Ianto probably should have told Jack, given that it had happened in the Hub and that was really his boss' domain. Ianto had never claimed to be good, or wise. But what would Jack have done against the Fae? "They said I would face a choice."

Jack's face was inscrutable, just a deep set scowl and eyes black in the night. Ianto didn't blame his anger. The faeries had killed Estelle, a woman he had loved. Any reminder would be painful, which Ianto used to excuse not telling Jack. Excuses were better than nothing -- were better than any guilt or twinge of conscience for not telling Jack. Excuses were better than knowing he was hiding.

"And have you made it?"

Had he? Ianto wasn't sure. By best guess, he had. How his decision in the early hours of morning would impact the faeries, he didn't know. But Ianto assumed all would make itself clear at some point.

Or they might one day kill him in his sleep, suffocating him and stealing his soul. Always an option as well.

"They weren't exactly forthcoming in the details," Ianto replied drolly, hugging his arms about his body to draw the blanket tight, "but I believe I have."

Jack stepped closer, invading Ianto's personal space to tap him on the temple. "What other secrets are you hiding?"

It wasn't really a question, more a statement of observation. A correct observation, though Ianto might have been more inclined to answer had the question not sounded so contemplative, like Jack was trying to read Ianto's every secret in his eyes. Not likely, unless Jack had developed a talent Ianto couldn't block. "We all have secrets, Jack."

"Two years of my life are missing. I can't die and I don't know how or why. I'm not from this time."  Jack ran a hand through his hair, a move Ianto rarely saw.  Frustration?  Anger?  Jack should be furious and instead he appeared ... frustrated.  "There once was a time when I really was not a nice person. You? You worked Intelligence for Torchwood One. Your mother was Ms. White. Your father knows me, and not from this time." Ianto wanted to point out that while he appreciated Jack's blunt honesty (for once), his father had kept that little fact a secret from him as well, but Jack was plowing on without thought of stopping. "You snuck a cyberwoman into my basement. You have faery talking with you, watching you. You have friends who kill with their mind and while you may not be able to do it quite like they do, I do not doubt you could kill with your intellect just as easily. My secrets...they're unexplained or unimportant. Your secrets eclipse in scope and it's what I don't know that quite honestly scares me."

Jack...was scared of him? That was absurd. And Ianto was the one short on sleep and still suffering from a throbbing headache. Attempting for levity while dissembling, Ianto mentioned an additional secret, hiding and burying all the others he kept. "You left out blackmailing Ms. White."

The look on Jack's face, if they never spoke again after that night, would remain a highlight in Ianto's memory for years to come. "You blackmailed your own mother?"

Ianto shrugged. "She ordered me to leave Cardiff and return to London."

"You're something else, Ianto Jones."

"I'm just a tea-boy."

Silence stretched, and for a moment Ianto believed he had said something to offend. But Jack was just studying him, looking at Ianto like he'd never really seen him. Ianto knew he had, he'd been there when Jack studied every bit of skin with eyes and lips. Jack knew him, nothing should come as a surprise. Except for maybe the faeries. And his father. And the whole Mr. Black issue.

"You are more than that, Ianto."

He was prepared for Jack's onslaught this time, braced for the full contact and sweeping motion that nearly knocked him off his feet. Last time their kiss had been an explosion of everything bottled and contained; this one was far more desperate as lips sought knowledge and absolution. Jack was cautious this time of Ianto's arm, but eventually exhaustion won, dwindling Ianto's fire until just a faint, buzzing glow surrounded him.

Of course, that could be Jack, who was perceptive as ever (though it could have been the lack of interest in a bed partner which clued him in as well).

"When was the last time you slept?"

Fingers traced what Ianto knew had to be glorious dark circles under his eyes if Jack could see them in the faint moonlit night. He closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth of Jack's body, but that turned out to be a mistake as Ianto found himself swaying slightly to find his balance in a world without light, where up had no meaning and everywhere touched nothing. "I slept when I could."

"Meaning very little and I imagine you still have a headache from back at the Hub." Ianto didn't argue against him; such efforts would be wasted. He did open his eyes though as Jack pulled him towards the house, stumbling after the man who had far too much energy for the hour. "Come on, show me where little Ianto slept and wanked to Kylie Minogue."

That and the wink drew Ianto up short. "Jack, we are not having sex in my childhood bed."

Jack laughed with his usual bluster before quieting and tugging Ianto inside the house. Stephen and Jean-Luc were asleep in the living room and Jack tiptoed past, whispering with a broad grin while Ianto directed to his bedroom, "considered it, but you'd fall asleep and hurt my ego."

Ianto snorted as he shut the door behind them, ineloquent but as close to a laugh as he'd broach, throwing the blanket from his shoulders on top of Jack's on the floor. His protests fell on deaf ears while Jack stripped off Ianto's black tee, allowing him to remove his own jeans, shoes, and socks while Jack shucked his clothing down to his briefs as well. "Jack--"

"As much as I'd like to take complete advantage, no. You're sleeping."

"But you rarely sleep."

"Bed."

He opened his mouth to argue but Jack turned his back and ignored him, pulling the blankets down and fluffing the pillows. There was no playfulness anymore, no boyish grin, just Jack holding out his hand for Ianto to follow into bed. Which he did, reluctantly, not thinking about the fact that his...that Jack was laying down with him. In his bed. In his father's house. A father he thought he knew.

A surge of rebellion made Ianto arch back into Jack as he settled in behind Ianto, an arm crossing Ianto's to clutch his hand over Ianto's chest. Warmth and caring pulled at him, dragging him down and tempting him with sleep but still Ianto found no dreams, only visions of the not-so-past and imagined horrors of what might lay ahead.

God, he was responsible now for the kids. And Torchwood.

Technically, he was Jack's superior. Not that he'd ever know, not if Ianto's plan worked and Stephen agreed.

Jack's arm tightened around him as his leg hooked over Ianto's; it took a moment for Ianto to realize he was fidgeting. Distracted. Too caught up in thoughts to sleep and too afraid to shut his eyes to allow the thoughts to cease.

"Talk to me. Tell me about your mother."

Ianto fought the idea for a moment, felt his body tense and heard Jack's nonsensical "shh'ing." He could ignore Jack; he had every right to not answer, to close his eyes and try to sleep without saying one word. But thinking about not talking was nearly as painful as talking. Rather than contemplate the hundred ways he could avoid Jack's question, Ianto answered. "She really wasn't much of one. Avalon and Torchwood were her life. I didn't know her but for two months a year."

"She came here?"

"No, I visited London. For a while with Elaine, then just by myself. We joined them in their classes, studied their texts...basically I was in school year-round learning everything from biology to the difference between clairvoyance and fortune-telling."

"Learned how to fence."

Ianto smiled at that, remembering all the long hours with Stephen in the gym...and of Jean-Luc after. "Among other things." He could feel the kisses being pressed against his hair, light and relaxing. He wouldn't have guessed it of Jack, these gentle touches not motivated by desire. Not that it surprised him, not really. It was just...confusing.

"Were you a troublemaker?"

"At Avalon? Terrible." And he had Jean-Luc to blame. Not that Ianto hadn't had a fair hand in the trouble they got into, but he was such a well-behaved boy. Until Jean-Luc. Though Ianto wouldn't trade that time for anything. "I can't count the times she called me to her office. She sat behind her desk like she was supreme power in Europe, yelling at me about my behavior and my representation of the family. I used to sit there and pretend to listen, all the while skimming the bookshelves for the next title I'd read. Sometimes I think she enjoyed those moments and made up excuses to bring me to her office to hound me for some incident, really the only time we spent together. She'd--"

His voice cracked embarrassingly so Ianto stopped with the storytelling, not able to stop the shudder that traveled down his spine to his toes and back up again to ring his ears. He was not going to fall apart, he might admit it to his sister but he was not going to in front of Jack. His mother didn't deserve it, and Ianto didn't deserve the shame. He'd made it through every single memorial for the Torchwood fallen. He wasn't going to allow Ms. White to break him now.

Jack didn't seem to care about Ianto's embarrassment, however, and used his greater strength to turn Ianto over, gasping and thrashing against the change in position. It didn't last long; Ianto didn't have much fight left in him. Besides, it was much easier to just bury his face against Jack's neck, pressing his nose against the soft skin, than to struggle to avert his face. There wasn't a spot on his body not pressed tight against Jack, or Jack against him. Far more intimate than his back pressed to Jack's chest, far more warmth. It took a moment to find his voice, but once he did, Ianto couldn't stop himself from talking. "Her office was destroyed, I found...she was buried under her desk. God, Jack, it was personal. They knew her and hated her and beat her for it, then broke...her neck was broken. Three gunshots after the fact, desecration, mockery of the dead...they _knew_ her. Everything else was detached, with purpose. Not her."

He could feel every time Jack breathed. Slowly Ianto's breath slipped into the calm cadence of Jack's. In, and out. In. Out. Steady and sure, chests expanding and shrinking in time to the circles drawn on his back. In. Out.

"Are you safe?"

Ianto felt the tilt of Jack's head; if he looked up, Jack would be looking back. He didn't, though, he kept speaking into Jack's neck, concentrating on breathing and ignoring the overwhelming urge to curl up into a ball and ignore Jack, ignore Torchwood and Avalon and everything else. "Jean-Luc and Stephen will be fine until they're healed."

"Are _you_ safe?" Each word enunciated; each word clear.

"She was never my mother, Jack. I'm safe wherever I go."

"Ms. White wasn't your mother. But the woman who died was."

For a moment, Ianto couldn't breathe, his voice slipping away as what Jack said sank in. It was no different, really, than what he'd told Elaine, but that was his sister and Ianto definitely didn't believe everything he said. But Jack had cut across the careful divide that Ianto had firmly in place separating work from home. Jack was right though. Viviene was. Ianto supposed it was okay to hate one and mourn the other -- it almost made sense in his sleep-hungry mind. It might appear differently in the morning, but for now, it was okay.

Ianto finally relaxed against the other man with a sigh, shifting a bit until he was comfortable engulfed by Jack. Jack, whose hands still drew circles around his back, mesmerizing, though at times Ianto sensed pattern, maybe words. Maybe code to some distant galaxy where the history of Jack's life was explained. Ianto would like to hear that one day. Jack's Life: A Story so Long Your Grandkids Will Love the Ending. But that would be stepping into personal, and outside of his earlier confessions, Jack didn't do personal.

 _Personal._

"Jack, what happened to Torchwood Four?"

The hands at his back stilled; perhaps Jack had thought he'd fallen asleep. Not yet, despite the fatigue, Ianto still found himself thinking. It had been _personal_.

"You'd know better than I. It disappeared, that's all I was told."

Disappeared overnight. The first blemish on Ms. White's peppered history.

Jack's arm moved from Ianto's back, a loss inviting cool air against his skin. It didn't last long though. Ianto felt himself warmed as his chin was lifted from the pillow for a soft kiss, almost chaste, just a mere brush of Jack's lips over his. It was kind, caring. Just for a moment, Ianto forgot, and that was worth all the secrets and lies leading 'til then and into the future.

"Get some sleep. Think in the morning."

And, surprising himself, Ianto listened.


	7. Silver Sheen and Wire Coiled

Ianto woke slowly, a drift towards consciousness which carried him through tendrils of dream fog and hazy snippets of reality. He'd dreamt of explosions, of nightmarish vestiges of blood-lined paths where bullets had etched the names of their intended and blank faces tried to swallow him. Fire curled and beckoned, tempting entrance through a long tunnel straight down (or was it up?) where he could just make out Avalon on the other side, but hands held him, preventing him falling through, searing his skin and refusing to let him go. _"I've got you. Won't let you go,"_ was whispered along the smoke, a voice Ianto recognized. Jack. Ianto was aware that he was dreaming of Jack, but couldn't wake -- not that he tried too hard -- so he sat while Jack talked, while he moved the figures across the game board, one hand swiping down a castle while he talked. Talked of nothing, talked of everything. Lots didn't make sense, but Ianto knew that dreams generally don't. But given his father's far-spun tales, Ianto wasn't surprised when they combined within dream, Jack's voice and his father's stories, tales of a desert world, of schools and training and alien races, of loves, wars, and losses all singing with a desperate thirst born of hot suns and dried oceans. All this while sitting in a courtyard upon a blanket of rose petals while Avalon towered into the sky and burned around them.

The heat from Jack's body burnt warmer than the fires, grey ash dusting the blood red petals until mounds of snow blotted the still shape of a woman in white and Jack complained of the cold. He always felt cold, despite the fiery furnaces hell kept warm as the devil fought against an angel in sneakers, armed with a light saber which made sounds of buzzing, chiming, and squawking. Ianto heard words, his words, though they spilled out of his mouth in a disembodied voice, metallic and foreign. Alien. Painting themselves on the snow in code where letters were faces for all 796 characters. _"How can sorrow rain, while the light shines?"_ Ianto painted in the snow, more and more faces, as Jack grew more confused. He didn't understand and as hard as Ianto tried, the more abstract the faces became. Curves sharpened until angles were no longer features but sleek metal and wire. _"Avalon's gone but it isn't. Just have to find the right coil, find the right point. It is but it isn't, parallel yet same. It all comes back, Avalon will return, another coil, another loop. Which do you ride? Or am I alone until dawn never comes?"_ Ianto grew scared as he spoke, the faces chattering back about their lives, their details, all 796 characters so loud and deafening it was hard to hear Jack's response despite his lips pressed to Ianto's ear, _"I'm with you, I am always with you, on every curve and coil."_

The words ran like hot spring water over Ianto, melting the white snow and the faces, pouring together into a stream that raced to the heavens, washing away the clouds until nothing but the bright sun remained, wrapping her light around Ianto and Jack until the remains of Avalon no longer wept but sang, a beautiful phoenix song, harmonizing the discord until all vibrated in perfect melody.

It was beautiful.

And so Ianto woke, lured from his dreams wrapped in warmth as a quiet melodic hum hovered above his ear...the same from his dream. Jack was _humming_. That in and of itself was enough of a surprise to Ianto that he remained still, feigning sleep, basking in the otherworldly peace that filled the room. He recognized the tune, it was one of millions stored in the alien music device. He'd heard it once and thought it both tragic and hopeful, a serenade to the forgotten and the lost and a plea to the future for those who remain. Or so Ianto thought. Jack made it sound more lullaby -- a soothing, steady rock as the cadence swung to and fro, tempting him back towards sleep.

Ianto couldn't move, he didn't _want_ to move.

He heard footsteps outside his door, but Ianto didn't open his eyes, didn't start as the door swung open to allow the person on the other side access to the room.

"Ian-"

Elaine's squeak nearly made Ianto laugh. His name stretched octaves in her surprise, but he remained still, relaxed, soaking in the heat from Jack's skin wrapped so tightly about him that the linens loosely covering them were hardly necessary. Ianto figured Elaine had just received an eyeful, though an eyeful of Jack wasn't really a bad thing from Ianto's point of view. He had a lovely body and Ianto enjoyed exploring it.

The humming stopped.

"Morning," Jack whispered. "Quiet, he's still asleep."

"Right. How is he?" Elaine's voice had dropped as well; Ianto could hear her venturing closer, apparently undaunted by catching her brother in bed with a partner. At least it hadn't been his nephews; Ianto didn't know if he could handle their activity and high voices this morning.

"Had a rough night, but he slept."

"He looks so much younger in his sleep. How long have you been together?"

Ianto was as curious as he imagined Elaine was for the answer to the question.

"Forever," Jack simply stated and Ianto wondered if it was honesty or if Jack was saying what he thought Elaine wanted to hear. Ianto would be hard-pressed to answer the question with any sort of specificity, but Jack made it sound like it had always been, from the moment they first met. Ianto almost felt guilty for listening in on their conversation now.

He felt delicate fingers brushing his hair, light enough not to wake him. He was certain it was Elaine. "I'm happy for him. He was so lost after Torchwood One."

"The Battle has been hard on all of you."

"Yes, well, I couldn't ask for a better brother." He heard his sister stand, denim brushing against itself sounding loud in the room. "Breakfast is on, just thought I'd tell him. You. Both of you."

"Thanks, we'll be down when he wakes up. He'll probably want an aspirin, if you have any."

"We do. I'll set it out for him. Oh, and Jack?"

Jack's body shifted. Elaine must be at the door and he needed a change in position to see her well. At least he was listening. Ianto typically did when she used that tone of voice, louder than a whisper now but still soft.

"I don't know if what my father said is true, but if it is, time won't stop me from finding you if you hurt my brother."

All Ianto could hear in the silence that followed was the beat of Jack's heart thumping against Ianto's back. If he didn't know any better, his sister's words made the steady tempo alter just slightly, and then resume. Then again, he'd be wary of his sister, too.

"I don't want to hurt him."

"See that you don't."

The door to his bedroom clicked shut; Ianto knew Elaine had left them to return to the breakfast downstairs. The smell of coffee wafted through the room, almost making his stomach growl at the olfactory memory. He fought to keep it silent by considering what his sister had said. Did his family believe him fragile? First his father, now his sister was stepping in to fight his battles. Jack was not a battle to be fought. Jack was the present; Ianto could never look forward. Once he did that, he knew he'd fall waste to longing for someone or something not meant to be his. He didn't know what he and Jack had, but Ianto knew better than to wish it more than what it was -- brief moments in his life where the world righted itself, and in those moments, he felt...valued, the center of space and time for Jack. Not to mention, the sex was really, really good. He'd take those moment, and he'd enjoy them in the time in which they happened. He expected nothing more; and he refused to want anything more.

Of course, he was rather good at lying.

But he still didn't need his family defending him. He wasn't fragile, nor did he need protection.

Jack's hold tightened for a moment as he settled back into the bed and Ianto took that opportunity to be disturbed from "sleep." "Mmm...Jack?" His voice was still gravely from sleep, all the better to authenticate, and he stretched and groaned as his body felt stiff and abused. Hadn't felt that way while he'd been motionless, only once he'd moved. At least he felt a bit less than death warmed over; he needed more sleep, but the idea of sleeping the day through was unacceptable. He had duties now. The children had to be found.

"Morning."

After a quick kiss (Ianto broke it off; he'd meant it when he'd said no sex in his childhood bed), Jack's eyes crinkled with a smile. Ianto wanted to hit him for looking so awake and chipper. He opted for pulling a pillow over his eyes, blocking the light streaming in through his window. The headache hadn't gone away, not really, although it did seem less of an insistent driving pain and more an apithetic throb, like it'd been hurting for so long it hardly had the energy to keep it up.

"Elaine dropped by earlier, said breakfast was ready if you wanted."

"Shower, then coffee." Ianto thought twice and pulled the pillow from his eyes, catching sight of the smirk on Jack's face and quickly amended his statement. "Separate showers. I have old photos of Kylie if you're in need of inspiration."

Jack's laughter shook the room, followed by a quick fight over who would shower first. It wasn't an order, but it was very nearly one when Jack demanded Ianto go first and soak under the hot water for a while to ease the stiffness in his muscles. Only Jack's threat that he'd use all the hot water if he went first inspired Ianto to move. Ianto gave him a look before he went out into the hall, a confused once over while Jack was distracted by the view outside his bedroom window. Jack's voice was roughened, but Ianto was fairly sure he hadn't slept. Or hadn't slept much. It made him wonder about his dream, and if anything more than just the music was reality versus subconscious.

And before he could think too much on that, Ianto turned and walked away.

***

After his shower (and yet another argument as to why there was to be no sex in his bedroom -- never mind the childhood, Ianto couldn't imagine the embarrassment if his nephews walked in), Ianto ventured downstairs while Jack took his turn. He felt moderately better after the shower, nothing a few aspirin from the bottle Elaine had set on the counter couldn't dim. Elaine, Stephen and Jean-Luc were sitting at the table, sipping coffee over plates of half-eaten waffles, watching as he shook out two, then another before throwing them back with a glass of water. Unnerving, and made Ianto feel extremely self-conscious. He was just glad he didn't choke on the pills while he swallowed.

"You should stay in bed today and recover."

Ianto didn't roll his eyes, but he came close as he poured a mug of coffee and joined the others at the table. Elaine must have made the coffee, it was nearly as good as his own (as it should be given his practice at Torchwood Three). "I'm fine, Stephen."

"What's wrong with Ianto?" Jean-Luc asked, becoming interested suddenly in Ianto's appearance. He still had no recollection of what had transpired at Avalon. The last thing he remembered was his breakfast the day prior. The doctor who had treated Jean-Luc had said this was possible, so Stephen and Ianto had agreed to keep the details of the attack on Avalon scant, including how Ianto knew to come from Cardiff. It was for the best, and maybe one day Jean-Luc would remember. The details of Ianto's well-being were not important, not in the scope of things, and they had far larger problems to deal with.

"Ianto's right here." Ianto couldn't blame Jean-Luc for asking; he'd always been a bit protective of Ianto once they'd become friends. Which was still something he was going to have to work through. He remembered Stephen's words yesterday, how at first Jean-Luc's "friendship" had been a ploy to get answers. Ianto wasn't exactly sure how he felt about that. True, they had become friends, and there wasn't any other he trusted as implicitly as Jean-Luc, but the memories felt a bit tainted now, misshapen, a small cancer that, unless removed, could consume and destroy all it touched. But another time, another place, another headache. "And nothing's wrong."

"And I don't believe you. What happened?"

"You nearly killed him."

All eyes turned torwards the stairs, where a casual Jack walked down the steps, hands stuffed in his pocket, looking as unruffled as ever. His hair was still damp and his clothes looked remarkably wrinkle-free, a feat Ianto wasn't sure how he accomplished. Casual yet...tense. Ianto could see it along the lines of Jack's shoulders, in the false smile curving his lips. Predatory, perhaps.

And suddenly, Ianto realized what was going on. Maybe not everything, but this was revenge. Or at least the continuation of petty bickering. Jean-Luc had watched over Ianto after Lisa...now Jack was doing the same. "Jack..." Ianto warned, but it was lost amidst Jean-Luc's protests.

"I would do no such thing!"

"But you did." Jack poured himself a cup of coffee as well and sat beside Ianto at the round kitchen table, leisurely stretching in the chair as he took a sip, speaking as casually as if he were reporting the weather. "Level four psychic trauma with disruption to the central nervous system and ancilliary functions including sense and mobility. You panicked and channeled everything in a focus directed at Ianto to alert him to the danger. You overloaded him and he nearly died on the Hub floor."

Jean-Luc looked wide-eyed at Stephen who nodded; Ianto felt a bit wide-eyed himself. When did Jack become the expert in Avalon matters?

Stephen continued slowly, as though reluctant to give any credence to what Jack had said. "I wasn't aware of that diagnosis, I don't think we've ever given it a name but I knew the symptoms. A few children were discovered after accidentally reacting in a similar fashion, though none of them had your gift."

"Fuck, Ianto, I'm so sorr--"

"You should be!" Jack's ire finally broke through the facade of calm. Ianto would have reacted but he was stilll trying to figure out how Jack knew. He wasn't connected to Avalon. Well, he hadn't been in the past. Perhaps in the future...and that line of thinking shifted Ianto's stability to a bucking suspension bridge unsettled by the wind. Ianto knew Jack wasn't from this time, he'd said as much, but he had never considered that he could be from a far distant future, maybe one where people like Jean-Luc lived openly and freely. God, maybe it was even common, common enough to have a diagnosis for related trauma. That would make sense, given his quote of the 21st century, but Ianto had never really factored in that he wasn't from the past. Was his father from the future? Is that why he reacted as he did to the news of Ms. White's death? How much of Ianto's life was playing out because he chose it to, and how much was manipulated into events already past for Jack who was now living his future in the past? It made Ianto's head hurt just thinking about that. "You had no control, and you almost killed one of my team."

Despite the tape and gauze and lack of any credible gift that would have threatened Jack, Jean-Luc still looked a force to be reckoned with when goaded to anger. His words were dangerous enough. "Would you have cared if you weren't shagging him? Seems you have a track record for destruction--"

"Enough!"

Jean-Luc and Jack had risen from their chairs but froze at the sound of Ianto's voice bellowing over their shouts. His palms stung from hitting the table as forcefully as he did, but it seemed the combination was enough to silence the two who Ianto understood might have his best interests in mind, albeit a really shoddy method of demonstration.

"Both of you, sit down and listen." He waited as they both complied, four sets of eyes now glued on him, though not without a few glares shared between Jack and Jean-Luc. Elaine had been silent through this whole discussion, but was listening as well. As she should; Ianto's anger was partially directed at her. "Yes, Jack and I are together, but it is my damned choice who I share a bed with. So respect my choice and intelligence and stay the hell out of my personal life no matter how good your intentions."

"You..." Ianto turned his attention on Jean-Luc, who actually looked a bit repentant for his words, "have no right to condemn Jack's past. We all do things we shouldn't, or do I need to remind you of your parents' killers?" Ah, so he had been right in his guess that Jean-Luc had hunted them down, judging by the pallor of his face. He knew his friend too well. Rounding on Jack, Ianto waved a finger at him, not caring for social niceties. At this point Ianto was questioning whether or not it was too early to start drinking, much less about politeness. "And you! It was a fucking accident. I'm alive, and thanks to the warning they're alive. It doesn't matter how it happened. What matters is that at least two hundred people are missing, we have no idea who has them or where they're located, and you're choosing to waste your breath arguing with each other. Fuck, my nephews act with more maturity."

Four pairs of eyes watched him in breathless silence. Ianto could feel the blood pounding in his ears but no one said a word. No one needed to; Ianto believed he'd said it all for them. Of course, he hardly ever lost his temper; he blamed the chaos of the week for losing it on two occasions. This time he meant everything he'd said. He moved away from the table and got a refill of coffee, just for something to do while the others stared. It made his skin crawl. He picked up a waffle as well (heart-shaped, a Scandanavian gift from their mother), still warm beneath a cheese cloth, and the serving vessel with syrup. Back at the table and ignoring the others, he concentrated on filling each divet to the brim with syrup, just like he'd done as a kid. His father had often made waffles -- Ianto now wondered if it was a connection to his mother -- and Ianto had gotten quite obsessive with making sure each depression was filled just right. If he was careful, he could split the cells and not have the syrup spill over. His sister always liked hers with preserves, but Ianto's sweet tooth loved the syrup and plus there was no challenge in eating them with preserves.

He took his first bite then realized no one was yet talking and all were watching. Jack was especially amused. "Are you going to threaten my waffle before I eat so it doesn't choke me?"

Jack started laughing first, then the others joined in, as though they were waiting for someone else to start so they'd take the blame. Ianto would feel offended, but laughter was far more welcome than fighting and open hostility, though he still had no idea what they were laughing at and he was rather irritated that laughter would follow his dressing down.

"Do you always eat your waffles so meticulously?"

Elaine answered Jack while Ianto swallowed his bite of syrup and a little bit of sweet bread. "You should see him with alphabet soup."

More laughter, real and full this time. The earlier tension was gone, Ianto could feel it slinking out of the room with its tail between its legs. Elaine could mock all she wanted, but he still remembered what she did with dolls at tea time. He was going to refer to Elaine's childhood and her dolls in retaliation as Jack stood, but was stopped by lips pressed against his, Jack's tongue tasting the sugary syrup still clinging to his lips. All the fire Ianto knew he was supposed to be feeling pool into other places was instead burning his cheeks, a blush he could feel from nose to ear and down to his toes as Jack kissed him at the table. In front of family and friend.

"I'm sorry." Jack's whisper was barely audible, but Ianto understood. Sorry for provoking Jean-Luc. Sorry for angering Ianto. And Jack should feel sorry, though Ianto wasn't one to hold a grudge. Especially not when someone kissed him like that. Even if it did feel like he was marking territory. Ianto didn't think he did jealousy, but around Jean-Luc, Jack seemed to change.

"Get your own waffle, I don't share." Ianto smiled and pushed Jack away, embarrassed enough by the display that he didn't want to further shame himself by doing something like coming in his pants at the dinner table. Jack did just that with a fairly evil grin as he spilled syrup all over his waffle with no care for precision. Would figure. Ianto wondered if there was research done on how one ate their waffles in regards to persona.

***

"I meant what I said in there. Torchwood will do whatever it can to help Avalon."

As they walked to Jack's vehicle, Ianto knew Jack was serious, and the Mr. Black in him appreciated it. He'd need Torchwood's resources since Avalon's had been destroyed, and an agreeable, willing Jack was much easier to work with than a stubborn, uncooperative Jack. "Stephen and Jean-Luc need to speak with Mr. Black, and they'll inform us what needs to be done."

Jack stopped and his eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Mr. Black?"

Ianto didn't hesitate as the truth, absent of a few minor details, slipped past his lips -- feeling guilty for manipulating Jack but at the same time, not wishing him to know who was Mr. Black. It would change everything too much and Ianto couldn't deal with that and everything else. "I reported Ms. White's death and the destruction of Avalon, I was told then of Mr. Black."

Jack's reaction was predictable, features softening into compassion. Ianto quickly changed the subject to a topic that had been chewing away at the back of his mind since the breakfast conversation, and certain to sour his stomach every time he thought about it. "Jack, I want to apologize for earlier, when I said we were together. It was the quickest way to explain things outside of repeating Jean-Luc's crude surmisal."

He was studied for a moment before he was finally asked, "So how would you define us?"

"I...don't know," was the best answer Ianto could think of, uncertain how to respond. While they certainly shagged as Jean-Luc had said, there were moments, more recently than before, when Ianto questioned the situation or Jack's actions. Some of it was simply confusing and contrary to what Ianto had believed. And yet, he knew Jack. Jack simply didn't have relationships, or anything remotely similar. Estelle had been an exception, but then Ianto believed the captain really had loved her, as much as he could.

"Then I think 'together' works just fine."

It took a moment for Ianto to recover, breath paused and jaw working to say anything remotely intelligent. Jack seemed pleased with himself, arms crossed, as he watched what Ianto figured was a comical expression dance across his face. Not the response he had been expecting, though not one he was particularly against. Jack just surprised him, that was all.

When he finally located his voice, Ianto changed the topic again, veering away from the confusion of trying to understand Jack and the unexplained. "A Torchwood bullet will show up during the investigation of a shooting at a hospital in London."

"Just one?"

Ianto nodded, remembering the single shot it had taken to bring down their attacker. Single shot. He had been taught well.

Jack seemed to hear his thoughts, tapping Ianto's chest as he stepped closer. "Frightening." Ianto knew what he was referring to; Ianto had never gone through any training with Jack or mentioned his proficiency with firearms. But Jack had never asked, so Ianto had never felt the need to share the information. Not really a secret; he would have answered truthfully if asked.

Before he could respond, Jack had him pressed against the SUV, lips doing their best to erase the memory that would haunt Ianto along with the thousands of others. "I'll take care of it," Jack panted once they parted, Ianto smiling despite being equally out of breath. It would be a long trip back to Cardiff for Jack, though Ianto had bets on how far from Broderick's home Jack would drive before he pulled over and took care of the erection pressing into Ianto's thigh. He might not even pull over, Ianto decided, deliberately moving his leg over Jack's groin, and the images of Jack wanking in the SUV as he drove flitted across his mind. Then he remembered who would have to clean the SUV before the team took it out again.

Semen was hard to remove from upholstery once it dried.

"Don't leave a mess," Ianto ordered as he pushed forward with his thigh, grinning at Jack's answering groan. Half a kilometer. At the most. "I'll be back to work tomorrow. Drive safe."

***

The moment Owen stepped into the Hub and saw Ianto straightening days worth of rubbish and tech, he dragged Ianto to the med bay, insisting on running a battery of tests before permitting Ianto to return to work. A stream of curses and lectures followed as he ran his tests. A slight sensitivity to light and residual headache were all that remained from Ianto's "migraine" which had prevented him from coming in to work. Or answering his mobile.

It almost seemed like Owen had been worried. He wasn't satisfied with the results, requesting Ianto submit to an MRI and CAT scan to eliminate the possibility of something more serious than a migraine as well as full labs and a stress test.

Ianto was so surprised that he actually agreed.

After Jack had left Broderick's home, Ianto, Jean-Luc, and Stephen had settled in for a long discussion, filling Ianto in on everything they knew about the disappearances. Which didn't tabulate to much. Stephen agreed without question to be the face and voice of Mr. Black, for which Ianto was vastly relieved. Jean-Luc argued against it, of course, on the basis that he thought Mr. Black needed a bit of sex appeal and youth.

Stephen had been appropriately offended.  
   
Ianto knew Stephen would be calling that afternoon, requesting a conference. At precisely one in the afternoon, the phone rang and Ianto heard Jack call for Owen, Gwen, and Tosh to join him in the conference room. Ianto almost made it to the Hub doors -- he'd planned on waiting in the Information Center until their meeting was finished before he called Stephen to find out the details -- when Jack called him to join the meeting.

He paused, one hand on the massive rolling door's release button. He couldn't remember a time when he'd sat in on a meeting like this. Typically, if he attended it was to fetch coffee and maybe a snack. Perhaps that was all Jack wanted. He waited by the door, not sure if he was to sit or if he should have started coffee. Jack pointed to a chair and so Ianto sat, ignoring the curious faces all wondering why he was there which superceded the curious questions of why the meeting was being held at all.

Jack passed out several sheets of paper. Ianto quickly scanned them to see what they were as the captain began the meeting from his spot at the head of the table. Ianto tried to picture himself seated there and failed, miserably. He much preferred the nondescript chair in which he sat, quietly and assuredly, if not making every attempt to blend in with the wall. "Four days ago, Ms. White was killed at her offices in London."

Well, Jack wasn't going to hedge around the issue.

"But that's--" Tosh was flipping through the reports, avidly searching for something before she cut herself off, setting the report in front of her.

"That's what, Tosh?" Jack asked, if not a little perturbed by the interruption.

"Nothing. I was mistaken." Ianto didn't miss the inquisitive look she shot his way. Trust Tosh to connect his abrupt departure from the Hub and Ms. White's death. He supposed he should have been a bit more cautious when typing up the report, but he'd lied about so much else that lying about the date of her death just seemed...disrespectful.

Jack continued, "Mr. Black has assumed rolls and responsibilities as Secretary of Research and Resource Allocation."

As Jack spoke and Stephen introduced himself (Ianto didn't miss the subtle eyebrow raise by Jack; it hadn't taken long for Jack to figure out who was on the other end of the line), Ianto tuned out the prepared words of encouragement, thanks, and praise for their job performances. He instead made a list of numbers he wanted to phone in Germany, Japan, Russia, the United States, France, Egypt, and China. Those countries in particular had come up in his research with possible sites for Torchwood-like bases; two (the United States and Germany) were credible. The others he would have to contact to discover their credibility. Visiting was out of the question, unless Stephen had opportunity. But Ianto wanted to play things differently than Ms. White had. Less nationalist, though all research and tech found in Britain would stay with Torchwood, and more open to sharing information with the other countries. The globe was too divided; Ianto didn't know of a single number in Torchwood One's database he could have phoned to warn another nation of the alien threat in London and the collapse of its defenses. That had to change.

"What are your thoughts, Mr. Jones?"

With a start, Ianto rejoined the conversation. He wasn't entirely unaware of the conversation, he'd been keeping half an ear to it, but he was still startled to be called upon during the meeting by Mr. Black.

That hadn't been part of his plans.

"I would hesitate before making any definitive answers regarding Torchwood Four's whereabouts, sir. They've been missing for fifteen years and most who might have come into contact with them died during the Battle."

Gwen was flipping through the second report, puzzlement on her face which grew as Ianto spoke. "Sorry, Mr. Black, but I don't understand why we're looking for them now after they've been missing without a trace for fifteen years?"

"Ms. Cooper," Ianto could hear the disdain in Stephen's voice and he struggled to maintain a straight face. Stephen played his part well, and hid the real reason for the inquiry and research behind a good front. Ianto owed him more than just a salary increase. "I will ask myself the same question fifteen years from now if you were to disappear today. Would you insist I not look for you?"

Owen snickered at this; he and Gwen must have had a falling out. Or at least a cooling to their sordid little affair they had for a time. Not that Ianto minded if it was over; he'd no longer have to scrub the interior of the SUV for stains not of his making.

"We've lost some of our own and done nothing for the same period. It's time we resume the search. Mr. Jones, what do you know of Torchwood Four?"

Ianto fought to submerge the glare that threatened to escape his control and slam into the conference phone which the others would surely notice. Stephen was deviating from the plan again and he knew all this information. "It was built in 1982 just outside of Oxford.  It was a sister of Torchwood One, functioning under similar structure and code. 198 employees from various parts of the country, some international. Whereas London's focus was primarily alien technology, Oxford concentrated on biology. Most tissue samples and, if captured, aliens went to the Oxford labs. It vanished ten years later, nothing but a large hole in the ground where the facility once stood. Torchwood One ran an investigation for one year, utilizing any applicable alien tech, but the results returned nothing. The whole place just ceased to exist."

"How did you come by this information? It's not in the reports from Captain Harkness."

He bit his cheek from answering how he wished to answer. Instead, Ianto calmly replied, "I read the report in London, sir."

"Of course. Tell me what you know of the individual who ran Torchwood Four."

Conscious that the others were staring at him, Ianto straightened, folding his hands in his lap while keeping his indifferent exterior. He couldn't even pretend to look through the reports for the infromation -- it wasn't in there. He couldn't hedge at the information, it was possible Stephen would quiz him further until Ianto revealed everything.

Stephen deserved a demotion for this. "Michael Hallings, born in York. Bioengineer for Torchwood One before transferring to Oxford when it first opened. Married to a Wendy Sheerling, they had one daughter, Cyndi, who was killed at the age of 10 by an alien believed to have originated in the Phi Cassiopeiae Cluster. His wife never recovered from the injuries she received in the attack, dying thirty days later, He had investments across the globe -- one Swiss bank account as well as multiple accounts in Oxford, London, and York. Inquiries determined legit business funding the accounts and they remained untouched after his disappearance. Money eventually transferred to a nephew, Simon Hallings, after Michael was declared dead by Torchwood in 1997."

"And what of his lead scientist?"

Two demotions, his salary cut in half. Ianto grew more uncomfortable talking as the others watched. Jack remained impassive, but one of Tosh's eyebrows threatened to merge with her hairline. Owen just looked impatient, like he wanted Ianto to quit talking so he could attend to other things like playing Space Invaders, and Gwen...well, he couldn't read Gwen. She was flipping through the reports.

Ianto began reciting what he knew. "Rachel Graves, born in London. Recruited by Torchwood for her expertise in genetics, transferred to Torchwood Four at Michael Halling's request. Unmarried, rumored to have had an affair with Omar Bradley, Genobotonist for Torchwood Four, married to Penelope Bradley, chemist at Torchwood One. Rachel was an avid collector of rare coins and paintings, estimated fortune of £2.4 million, mostly attributed to breakthroughs in medicine in the late 1970s. She--" Ianto paused midsentence, finally figuring out what Stephen was doing and disliking him even more for it. There was no reason for him to be quizzed on personnel. Not yet, at any rate. Not for an introductory meeting. And the information was all in the reports probably laid out in front of Stephen. "Are you testing me, sir?"

"Eidetic memory, Mr. Jones?"

Ianto heard Gwen whispering to Owen, questioning what it was. Tosh answered before Owen, her "photographic memory" probably carrying across the lines to an amused Stephen.

"I have a fair memory for detail, sir."

"How convenient for you." Stephen sounded entertained by the conversation; Ianto was growing more irate by the moment. This had not been in the plans and whatever Stephen's intent was, Ianto strongly disagreed with the line of questioning. He wished to blend in, not be called out in a meeting.

"A curse, sir." Ianto spoke stiffly, still maintaining his calm demeanor but seething on the inside, intentionally not thinking of just what his memory could do.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Jones?"

"Recall is not limited to text, sir."

"Ah yes, London. My apologies, Mr. Jones."

Which incident in London Stephen was referring to, Ianto wasn't sure, but he could remember them both nearly side by side, burning buildings and walking among the dead, blood running red against the cloudy smoke. There were differences. Where silver sheen and coiled wire dominated one view, a white blouse was the focus of the other. The sounds were different, steady metallic rhythm in one, snap-crackling of wood burning in the other. Screams, begging for life and mercy in one panel, the silent dead in the other. Over and over, calling up from any point in time, a perfect recollection of the images of the event, if not necessarily the context. Which made it even worse, sometimes, pieces of photographs drifting forward, triggered by some sight, some sound, some question, and it might not even be related to Torchwood One or the Cybermen.

And he wondered why his dreams were so haunted.

"...Ianto, think you could write up what you remember about Torchwood Four? Tosh will need precise locations, size, whatever else to start running preliminary diagnostics."

Ianto nodded at Jack's request, not trusting his voice for the moment to give an unwavering response. That was an easy request; the reports were already finished. The meeting was dismissed, and before Jack could even hang up the phone Ianto gathered the papers and stormed (fled) out of the room, pausing only briefly to slam his hand on the trigger for the Hub door. Tosh called after him, but he really was in no mood to talk or answer questions she might have about any of the issues raised in the meeting. He stopped at the Information Desk, picking up his mobile and slipping into the CCTV dead space so no one could hear him.

There was just one ring before Elaine answered the phone. Ianto growled a name and the receiver switched hands.

"Ianto, I'm so--"

"If I didn't need you, I would sack you right now, friendship or no. What the hell were you doing?"

"Proving a point." Stephen didn't sound the least bit apologetic for his deviation from script. He might have been for the conversation to come back to London, but not for his actions. "You are undervalued by your coworkers. I've read the reports and heard the stories, Ianto."

"No. No more points. It's tricky enough as it is, I do not want unwanted attention drawn on me right now. Tosh is already suspicious."

"Smart girl."

Ianto eyed the door to the long hall leading to the lift down to the Hub. He didn't have long; he could hear voices approaching. "No more help, Stephen. Stick to what we'd planned."

He clicked his phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket, smiling his plastered-on polite smile as the door opened for Owen and Gwen.

"Ianto, are you okay? I've half a mind to go to...wherever he is and give him what for."

Ianto kept the polite smile, but he had to admire Gwen every now and then. For all her naivety, there was a certain amount of refreshment in her attitude.

"I'm quite well, Gwen, thanks for asking. Will you be needing the car?"

"No, Owen and I are on foot. Are you sure you're okay? You're looking a bit peaky."

"I'm fine. Enjoy yourselves." Ianto turned his attention to straightening perfectly straight brochures, not looking up until he heard the bell chime above the Information Center's door. He stumbled in shock when he saw Owen still standing near the desk, eyeing Ianto with the same clinical eye he'd used during the tests and while Ianto had been standing in front of that certain basement door.

Owen's eyes darted about, then he leaned in, blocking his head from the CCTV. "If you want, I've still got that lube..."

He wasn't sure which did it, the fact that Owen had kept that "lube," that Owen was brash enough to bring it up to Ianto, or that Owen was conspiring against Mr. Black. One of them, however, warmed Ianto's smile, turning it from plastic to real like Pinnochio in the fables, and Owen seemed almost surprised by it.

Truth be told, it surprised Ianto as well.

"That won't be necessary, but thank you for the offer."

"Right. If you change your mind, I've been using it to fix my furniture." And with that, Owen left, leaving a stunned Ianto behind who couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the day.

Lube indeed.


	8. Deep Blue-Black

Ianto sat on the sturdy metal desk in Jack's bedroom (could one call it a bedroom if the occupant never slept?), waiting patiently for Jack. He was late, but Ianto wouldn't hold that against him, not this night. He checked the stopwatch, the face barely visible in the shadowed light -- ten minutes had been ten minutes ago and his arse was beginning to feel cold as the steel leeched his body's heat through the thin material of his trousers. It'd be far more comfortable to sit on the narrow bed, but that was not the direction Ianto wanted the night to go. Oh, he had sex in mind -- Ianto smirked at the thought -- but he wished to ensure it went as he had planned. If he sat on the bed, well, that would simply give Jack the wrong impression.

Besides, there was impact to consider. If nothing else, Ianto knew how to manipulate any situation.

Or at least he was learning. The past week's hunt for Torchwood Four had proven fruitless at best, depressingly void of any seeming existence at worst. The others apparently had similar thoughts and were not shy in voicing their opinions (Owen) about the lack of even an employee fingerprint or record save for what was in Ianto's head with that "photography mind" (Gwen) and venting their frustration about lack of any recorded image or biological trace (Tosh). Tosh was as eager to help as Jack, however, never giving voice to the complaints that had to be lurking in her head. Ianto was certain she suspected _something_ , some connection between his "migraine" and Ms. White's death and the search for Torchwood Four, but he bore the curiosity and searching looks with a kind smile and a "more tea, Tosh?" for her efforts. Owen and Gwen were entirely different matters, but a few conference calls with "Mr. Black," a trip to Oxford to investigate the former site, and one wild goose chase for the pair was enough to keep them occupied. A week of intense scrutiny and investigation, and still no closer to answers than they had been before.

And then Suzie returned.

Ianto honestly wouldn't have believed her capable of such a scheme if he hadn't seen it for himself. Not that she couldn't plan it, but that she would be reduced to such horrific, twisted measures to what, seek revenge? It was irrational and illogical. She courted death, seducing it and fucking it against the wall in hopes of demonstrating who the master really was. But death wasn't a plaything, it wasn't a toy, and it most certainly couldn't be fooled (except in the case of Jack, but Ianto wasn't quite sure how that bargain had been struck, much less the terms). It might have played along with Suzie's plan, but it had gained another victim in the process. Two for the price of one. But had she really thought she could cheat death forever?

He supposed she had. Her mind had been absolutely warped by the glove until nothing remained of the Suzie Ianto had known but a shell, hollow and single-minded. And Gwen had used it. Multiple times. Had shown an uncanny _proficiency_ with it, and he didn't believe the compassion shite someone had mentioned. Compassion wouldn't create the monster which had consumed Suzie. Unless it actually fed upon compassion, and then maybe Gwen could do with a little less.

At any rate, Ianto would keep a mindful eye on her. With the glove's destruction, so too might have been destroyed whatever corrupted powers it had possessed. But one couldn't be certain.

Ianto heard footsteps near the hatch leading to Jack's room and smiled as he discarded any thoughts of Suzie, death, or Gwen. Jack had made the hard decision, again, and Ianto knew that one person dwelling on actions in the tiny quarters would be enough to strangle, much less two. He leaned his elbows on his knees, legs spread for casual comfort and for effect, knowing he was partially hidden in the shadows -- he'd had time to select his place while he waited.

Jack scaled the ladder quickly, spinning towards the bed before he'd even set foot on the floor.

So predictable.

As was his surprise when he found it empty. "Ianto?"

Ianto wiped the smirk from his face, settling for what he hoped was confident intensity. He'd practiced in the loo's mirror after he'd stopped in the Archives, but he couldn't move past "ridiculous" while he was self-critiquing. If Lana...no, he wasn't going to think about that. His despondence was not of importance in these quarters.

"Strip," Ianto requested, leaning forward until he broke a slim beam of light escaping through the hatch in the ceiling. Jack jerked around at the sound of Ianto's voice, nearly tripping himself to Ianto's amusement.

"Bossy? I like it." Jack grinned an artificial grin which spread from ear to ear, failing to pass any semblance to the true smiles Ianto knew he possessed. Jack was efficient, not wasting any time in removing all clothing before standing in front of Ianto, hands on his hips and his cock already standing proud. A quick and mindless fuck, then. Possibly two, given Jack's youthful recovery.

Ianto had nothing of the sort in mind. Well, except for maybe the "two."

He didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow and nodded at the bed. Jack nearly leaped for it in his haste, throwing himself with such force to the bed he bounced. So eager, so playful, but to Ianto it just felt wrong, wrong, wrong. He'd heard it in Jack's voice in the morgue, he'd seen it in Jack's expression at the not-so-veiled innuendo. This...this was wrong. The man before had been wrecked, filled with regret for his duty and grief for the loss, but confused by the relief for the one still alive. Ianto understood that; he felt the same, just perhaps in a lesser sense. Jack had killed one of their own. Ianto didn't think he could do that, not even if it were Owen.

Or maybe he could, but that was something to think about at a later time. Tosh. He definitely couldn't do what Jack had done -- Ianto couldn't kill Tosh, not even if she were from beyond the grave.

Ianto knew. He hadn't been able to do it for Lisa.

This almost _perky_ Jack...it was as disturbing as realizing Suzie had fooled them all, using death as escape and release. Ianto didn't like it any better.

He eased off the desk, knowing Jack was watching with both impatience and barely contained restraint. If the wait grew too long, Ianto knew he would find himself in Jack's place on the mattress, and probably a ruined suit from Jack's frantic disregard for sake of sex and escape. Ianto caught one of Jack's hands as he approached, snatching it out of the air as Jack reached to pull Ianto on top of him by a hip. As he straddled Jack's hips, the other hand tried to remove the full suit Ianto still wore. Ianto fought off that hand as well. The fake-happy smile on Jack's face disappeared into a scowl when  he saw things weren't playing out as he wanted. It was a change of expression Ianto rather welcomed. The unnatural pep was just _wrong_

Ianto knew he didn't have much time, Jack's skills at hand-to-hand were far superior to his, but he knew he was working with surprise and the unexpected. He managed to get Jack's hands above his head (with a curse from Jack) and let go of one arm only long enough to jab at the ulna nerve he knew ran right along Jack's elbow (if Jack was from a distant enough time, perhaps evolution had worked the funny bone right out of the human system).

Jack's responding roar -- not in pain Ianto knew as the sharp poke wouldn't do any damage, but in what Ianto was fairly certain was shocked outrage -- gave him enough time to secure the ends of the band tucked beneath the pillow. Earlier he had looped it twice around the bar of the bed frame; now he pressed the sensor-tipped ends to Jack's wrists. He spoke the alien words, a deceptively light, airy sound, just as he felt Jack's muscles coil beneath him, distraction and surprise banished and fight unleashed. But the words had been spoken and a soft blue light filled the room (a blue the exact shade of Jack's eyes, he noted). Ianto could feel the bands thicken under his hand and circle Jack's wrists.

Handcuffs from the Ghost of Jupiter, a nonviolent race who had produced the most remarkable materials. The band held limited elastic properties but was impenetrable by any tool Ianto had seen. It wouldn't damage a human's thin skin, which made it far superior to the metal handcuffs or the plastic ties used on Earth. And good for Jack, who was violently testing the limits of the band and shouting the release words in the alien language.

Of course, they voice locked on whomever triggered the locking mechanism until the counter was spoken or the individual died (how the creators had done that Ianto didn't know; he'd studied similar bands at Torchwood One and had never figured it out). Jack surely knew that, but Ianto couldn't fault him for trying. Ianto would have been displeased as well.

"You are fucking fired, Ianto Jones. Do you hear me? You're mom's not around anymore, she can't force me to do anything and I'll go public with the identity of Mr. Black. You are finished. I should have--"

While ignoring the words he knew Jack didn't mean, Ianto sat patiently on Jack's hips, arms crossed, riding the bucks and thrashing with caution. Jack was restrained, but that didn't mean he was indefensible. One carefully placed foot or thrust could launch Ianto from the bed. And possibly kill him. Ianto was hoping they could avoid that possible outcome.

Finally, Jack lay panting and spent on the pillow, though fury still lined his face. The blue light from the activated band washed the bed in a glow the color of a summer cloudless sky, casting an unusual pallor to Jack's skin and making his hair even darker but Ianto couldn't say that the effect was unpleasant. "Are you finished?"

Jack glared and didn't respond. Ianto couldn't blame him, though he would be willing to put his next paycheck on the fact that Jack was no longer thinking about Suzie.

No, this wasn't going to be just a mindless fuck. It had everything to do with the mind.

"You're not to blame for Suzie's death or downfall." Ianto watched as Jack pulled hard at the band holding his hands; it gave just a little with the pull to prevent harm but kept him secured.

"I know I'm not," Jack replied quickly and automatically, words sounding as false as the earlier cheer.

Ianto uncrossed his arms and placed his palms on the pillow near Jack's head, lowering himself with deliberate slowness (all the while mindful of Jack's teeth and the distance between them from any part of Ianto's body he preferred to keep). "I don't believe you," he whispered in Jack's ear, feeling the tremor that chased the words. "Tell me to stop."

He pushed back far enough to see Jack's face, watching his eyes, his lips, anything for a sign that this wasn't welcome. Ianto understood the earlier anger, had been prepared for it. But now, now it was up to Jack; Ianto would release him without question, though he rather hoped Jack wouldn't ask.

Jack didn't move, eyes never straying from Ianto's. If Ianto hadn't been carefully he watching, he might have missed the slight shake of Jack's head. If he didn't know better, Jack appeared...vulnerable. But like jealousy, Jack didn't do vulnerable. Ianto knew he was mistaken.

Just to make sure he had interpreted Jack's movement correctly, Ianto dropped his head, pressing his lips to Jack's in a gentle-yet-querying kiss. He wasn't about to force Jack into anything, and they'd never discussed their kinks and hang-ups. For all Ianto knew, Jack feared ropes or anything of the sort. But Jack's lips opened beneath his, allowing Ianto to deepen the kiss and Jack followed.

Message received: do not stop.

Ianto lingered just a moment more before he eased off Jack, to the man's confusion. He knew Jack was watching as he walked to the table where he'd sat with a frozen arse for nearly fifteen minutes. The stopwatch was still there, softly ticking away the seconds. He quickly reset it, holding it out for Jack to see. "There are lots of things you can do with a stopwatch," Ianto repeated, hitting the button to start the timer. "This is one of them."

With a grin, he placed the stopwatch in one of Jack's bound hands, positioning it so the stop button rested against his fingers. Ianto curled the fingers around the stopwatch, making sure it was cradled safely by Jack's hand. "Don't press too hard, you'll stop the time" Ianto directed, hands rested on Jack's closed one, "Thirty minutes, Jack. Thirty minutes must pass without you hitting stop, otherwise I leave and unlock you in the morning after I start the first pot of coffee, if I'm feeling generous."

Jack's head jerked in affirmation and Ianto stepped away, gesturing to Jack's hands as he voiced a warning. "And Jack? Don't drop it. That watch is special to me." Ianto could see the muscles tighten in Jack's arms, the fingers moving to test what movement he had while keeping a grip on the stopwatch.

Satisfied that Jack understood the rules, Ianto tugged at his tie, loosening it as he spoke. "I wanked in the shower that morning at my father's house, you know." He snaked the tie through his shirt collar, setting it carefully on the desk. His jacket and cuff links followed. "I'd kind of hoped you'd ignore what I'd said and join me. Or walk in on me. I would have enjoyed that. You, on the other hand," Ianto toed his shoes off as he unbuttoned his shirt, "I don't think you laid a hand on your cock in the shower, did you? You were hard as stone when we kissed against the SUV. How long did you last on the drive back to Cardiff until you pulled over?"

The answering voice was low and hoarse; Ianto was pleased to note that Jack had turned as much as the bonds would permit to watch and his arousal was quite evident. He had been a bit afraid that Jack's earlier anger would have killed any desire. Or, perhaps, the anger just fueled it.

"Around the first bend."

"Hmm...about half a kilometer then." Ianto placed his folded shirt next to his jacket and began working on his trousers, belt first, then button and zipper. He risked the next question, needing as much to hear for himself as to tease Jack. "And who were you picturing, Jack? Kylie?"

Jack's laughter sounded slightly choked, like he'd tried to catch himself, or perhaps it was the sight of Ianto wearing just his socks as he folded first his trousers and then his briefs that did it. Ianto would probably never know.

"You."

"Me?" Ianto bent to take off his socks, one hand bracing himself against the desk, his arse in full view thanks to the blue light chasing the shadows. "And how exactly were you picturing me?" Ianto had his socks off and was leaning against the desk, cursing the idea once that cold band of metal chilled a stripe of skin. But he ignored it, casually stroking his erection while Jack watched.

Watched and didn't answer. For a moment, Ianto thought he wasn't going to respond; his eyes seemed fixated on Ianto's fist slowly pumping up and down. He licked his lips, then finally spoke.

"Asleep." Ianto blinked though he covered any other surprised reaction to Jack's statement, delivered in a soft honesty that left him confused. "You were...asleep. And...you called my name. In your sleep."

Any attempt for Ianto to dissect that comment failed, unsure if it was what Jack had pictured or if it had really happened and Jack "responded" to it. Or, he could be lying to throw Ianto off. No matter the explanation, Ianto quit his show for fear of coming a bit prematurely and stalked towards the bed. He first checked the stopwatch in Jack's hand, smiling to see (and hear) that it was still ticking, a quiet tick that one had to be listening for to hear. He'd pay attention to it, listen for the cessation that was a signal for him to leave.

He rather hoped it didn't stop ticking any time soon.

Ianto walked the length of the bed, giving Jack's feet a shove as he knelt on the mattress. The blue light barely reached the foot of the bed, more a faint reminder of the source which haloed Jack's head in a white-blue brilliance. Quite the picture Jack painted, Jack dressed in blue, arms and neck straining as he tried to keep an eye on what Ianto was doing at his feet. Blue deepened to black over his bent legs, maintaining purchase on the mattress where his knees had laid, moved to accommodate Ianto. It was the feet that were Ianto's first focus. He again admired Jack's flexibility as Ianto picked up Jack's left foot and supporting the heel in his palm. "Ticklish?"

Jack shook his head "no" but Ianto continued on without pause. "There are twenty-six bones in each foot, thirty-three joints, one hundred ligaments and..." Ianto lightly ran a finger down the arch of Jack's foot, "more nerve endings in the sole of your foot per square centimeter than anywhere else in the human body." He didn't miss the toes curling in reaction to the touch. He held Jack's foot firmly in place, despite Jack's jerk to free it form his hand. "Sensitive. I wonder if it's just your feet, Jack, or if the rest of you reacts the same way." Slowly, Ianto licked a path, feather-light, up the arch of Jack's foot, then breathed air over it to chill the stripe.

The answering gasp was worth the initial fear of death or vengeance.

With the smirk of one whose victory was far greater than had been hoped, Ianto mapped Jack's leg with an ear constantly tuned to the ticking of the stopwatch. A nip and lick at the ankle merited a groan, a spot three centimeters up from the tender skin at the back of his knee nearly earned Ianto a bruised shoulder from Jack's involuntary kick, and the inside of his thigh was especially sensitive. Ianto sucked and licked until the skin was bruised. Jack's squirms were almost enough to draw Ianto further up Jack's body to take pity on him and turn the attention to his cock.

Ianto continued from the foot of Jack's other leg, maintaining a firm grip as his reactions grew less predictable, a bruise matching the one on his left formed after Ianto discovered a new range in Jack's vocals.

And still the stopwatch ticked.

Sliding over Jack's hips, Ianto sat with Jack's cock trapped beneath him. He waited patiently while Jack demanded and begged. Jack breathed heavily from the sheer volume of words. When he realized Ianto wasn't moving or listening, he quieted and, finally, stopped. The stopwatch ticking sounded loud in the blue-lit chamber. "Are you quite finished?"

Jack nodded, stilling his fight against the bonds that refused to let him go, and quit trying to hump Ianto despite Ianto's advantage. It wouldn't work; Jack ought to know better. Or perhaps he was just that unused to relinquishing control, no matter how small it might appear. Ianto supposed in the time he'd been at Torchwood, an extended period of time at that, the opportunities may have been few and far between.

"I will take care of you," Ianto nearly cringed at the unintended double entendre, but then realized it was quite true. He ignored that thought and continued, "but only when I say it's time. Understand?"

He nodded again, and Ianto watched as he visibly relaxed against the alien handcuffs. Ianto waited a while longer, waited until even Jack's breathing had calmed to a steady waltz with the ticks of the stopwatch. Then he moved again,

This time, his path was different. Fingers traced Jack's torso, running down his arms and sides. Ianto had to stifle a laugh when Jack twisted to try to escape the (not tickling) hands. "So sensitive," Ianto murmured as he applied tongue and lips to the scarless skin. Such an anomaly for all the times Jack's died. Such perfection, deserving attention and focus.

Ianto retraced certain points he'd hit before, biting gently on a nipple, flicking the nub with his tongue, and finding new spots (just to the right of his navel, creates the most endearing moan). But with all the sounds Jack made, with all the moans, gasps, and steady litany of unconnected words and phrases, he never demanded. Humoring Ianto? Or had Ianto's plan worked to some extent?

And still the stopwatch ticked.

Jack's pleas lost meaning, lost cohesion and soon all that remained were syllables Ianto wasn't sure made sense before Jack tried to form thought into spoken word. Sweat plastered his hair to his brow, beads of blue running over his temples to drop into dark blotches on the pillow. Jack's cock was a solid steel lance burning with fire. Ianto knew the man had to be beyond need for orgasm but he wasn't sure which was the greater need -- staving off orgasm or keeping the stopwatch ticking. Ianto could see the muscles in Jack's arms bunch and jerk; at time his efforts nearly lifted them to pull them towards the head of the bed. Awareness, at least on some level, all to keep the watch ticking.

Ianto didn't stop, although he took a moment to slick his fingers for a quick stretch, almost unnecessary as undone as Jack was. He smiled as he nipped a tiny spot of skin on Jack's hip that turned the nonsense syllables into a keen (and partnered with a blind thrust of hips which Ianto carefully avoided). Jack was always focused during sex, attention always directed on every movement and sound Ianto made. Jack was simply _intense_ when it came to sex, and he was very good at it. Ianto didn't figure there were any who were left wanting more of the encounter. But this...this was different.

He wondered if Jack was aware at all outside of touch and the unconscious desire not to make it stop.

After spreading a liberal amount of lube on his aching erection that Ianto'd all but ignored in favor of Jack (god, sex wouldn't be lasting long), Ianto slid into Jack. Tight heat enveloped him, and between the hoarse shout from Jack and the vise grip on his cock, Ianto nearly ended the night extremely early. He rested his forehead on Jack's shoulder for a moment, feeling the rapid rise and fall of Jack's chest that nearly matched his own harsh breathing.

Finally regaining enough composure, Ianto moved, tapping Jack's cheek to get his attention. "Jack." When Jack didn't look, his eyes still closed and face pressed against one arm, Ianto moved enough to put pressure on Jack's chin, turning it so it aligned with his. "Jack, look at me."

Jack slowly opened his eyes, the blue glow matching his iris exactly, washing everything in Jack's view of the world. Ianto had caught glimpses before of Jack unguarded, had felt what he had felt through the ghost machine, but now the burden of time, knowledge, and battle scars spilled over and around them, filling Jack's quarters with a desperate longing for something Ianto couldn't begin to understand.

Ianto wondered how long it had been since Jack had known peace.

"Jack," Ianto whispered his name, afraid to break the still calm which had settled over them, but uncomfortable leaving Jack so...alone. With Jack's answering shudder Ianto believed he had been understood. Perhaps. Jack's breath hitched, and for a moment Ianto thought he had come, but he watched as Jack's eyes widened, noticing what Ianto heard as well.

Silence.

Ianto rolled his eyes as he reached over Jack's head for the stopwatch, cursing Jack's timing and knowing he'd have to leave as he'd said if not enough time had passed despite being buried balls-deep in Jack. The captain seemed reluctant to give up the stopwatch as well; he probably was thinking along the same lines as Ianto, except Ianto could pull out and wank in front of Jack if he wanted before he left. Jack would remain tied (and hard) until morning. A quick glance at the time assured Ianto that none of that would happen, Jack had made it by three minutes. Not that Ianto told him as he carefully set the watch on the floor, just under the bed to keep it out of stepping range.

Jack held his breath and didn't move, waiting while Ianto studied him, extending the suspense as long as he could maintain. Which, if he were honest with himself, wasn't very long. He answered with a sharp thrust of his hips that had Jack's eyes rolling back with pleasure, growling Jack's name to get the attention back on him, not the blue-tinged ceiling. He wanted to see Jack, to see the open expression in his eyes, to know that Jack understood

Some things were just beyond his control; he was not responsible for the fate of every person any more than Ianto was responsible for all in Torchwood One.

Lessons hard to learn.

The actual sex didn't last long, but then, the night hadn't been about tantric demonstrations of intercourse. Ianto reached between them, wanting Jack to come first, and gave Jack a brief nod. His hand had barely touched Jack's cock before he felt Jack's orgasm tear through him, heard it in the hoarse shout that echoed off the walls and saw it in the shudders and jerks at the restraints. The man was breathtaking in his release and it was all Ianto could do to watch and not join him in abandon, to cease the steady rock of his hips or the pumping of his fist, wringing every last shake, pulse, and cry from Jack.

 _Beautiful_ , as Jack liked to say. And, perhaps, Ianto better understood why he said that.

Jack relaxed into a trembling heap on the bed and Ianto quickly sought his own release, not caring for finesse or show. With a grunt far closer to a sigh, Ianto came, falling into the sticky mess coating both his and Jack's chests.

He didn't move, not for a while, just listened as Jack's frantic heart beat slowed to a steady pulse in tempo with Ianto's. With renewed energy and knowing that, despite all appearances Jack's sleeping position couldn't be comfortable, Ianto reached up and spoke the words for the handcuffs' release. He touched them, blinking rapidly as the room fell into darkness when the device turned "off." Jack didn't even stir. Ianto was mindful of Jack's shoulders, massaging each as he rotated both arms and lowered them to the mattress. Then he nabbed the flannel he'd stuck under the pillow (along with the lube, stopwatch, and a blindfold he hadn't needed) and did his best to clean the two of them before they were permanently fused by Jack's semen. Hard to explain to the rest of the team why Ianto was sitting on Jack's lap during the conference calls with Mr. Black, though the idea did amuse Ianto. Owen's face would be priceless.

Before he drifted into slumber, Ianto gathered Jack into his arms, taking the rare opportunity to watch Jack sleep.

***

Ianto wasn't surprised, not really, when he woke to shallow thrusts and the odd sensation of being disconnected from his leg. The leg thing was a bit more of a shock until he realized the missing leg was just flung over Jack's legs to open him up a bit, giving Jack access so he could fuck Ianto while they both rested on their sides. Ianto did vaguely remember a pleasant dream where Jack was blowing him while he made coffee. Seemed that wasn't far off from the truth, only it was more a hand job while Ianto slept. Wasn't actually anything like his dream except it had involved sex with Jack and that's all that really mattered to Ianto at that point. Still foggy with sleep, Ianto twisted his neck until Jack met him with an awkward, clumsy kiss.

It didn't take long for Ianto to come again, though how long Jack had been awake Ianto didn't know. Didn't really care, either, because the soporific warmth and calm defeated all concern. Jack's orgasm followed soon after, sharper thrusts and a sigh Ianto's key clues as he floated in a haze of almost-sleep.

Ianto allowed his eyes to close as Jack panted in his ear. He wasn't so far gone to miss Jack's whispered "thank you," however, and Ianto smiled to himself as he slipped away.

***

Ianto got into the habit of venturing out onto the rooftop of a tall building at the hours of eight and eight. Sometimes he came across Jack, other times he didn't and on some of those occasions, it was not unheard of to receive a text from Jack _"I c u"_. which was slightly unnerving for both the spelling and the spying. From his high vantage point, Ianto dropped his trousers and wanked once after receiving one of those messages; Jack claimed he nearly fell off his own neighboring rooftop. It didn't matter now if they went together or went their own way, though the sex they sometimes partook in when they did meet up was thrilling. Ianto understood, or at least had a better understanding, of what Jack spoke of when he explained why he came up to such heights. What Ianto lacked in time and space, he made up for with a better grasp of the big picture on earth, and that was overwhelming enough to drive him to the rooftops to catch his troubles on the wind and renew his focus. _They_ were why he did what he did. And even though he might despair at the lack of evidence concerning the children of Avalon, up at those heights, he found hope again, a rare commodity.

Jack teased one day that he had been a bad influence on Ianto. Instead of burying himself in the Archives for hours on end, Ianto now got fresh air and slacked off on the job.

Ianto didn't argue.

***

Ianto coordinated efforts to create an emergency band connecting the different countries he'd (Mr. Black) contacted. While not a perfect system, Ianto hoped a repeat like Torchwood One could be avoided, at least on the alien incursion front, if not from an outside perspective on research. Not that he wished to share any information; the other leaders were as reluctant as he to part with any tech or intelligence, but the other leaders had experienced close calls of their own, and it seemed only logical to have the capacity to warn other nations if the base was overrun.

Surprising himself, Ianto found himself getting along rather splendidly with the leader of the US base -- a retired Colonel Sheppard. He was new to the command, the previous leader killed defending his country from little naked green men. Or so Colonel Sheppard had claimed. With the rampant tales of Roswell and downed alien spacecraft, Ianto wasn't quite sure what to believe when it came to aliens and Americans.

Apparently Wilson held a desk job. He might be missing three years of his life but he could still file paperwork. Sheppard didn't quite know what to do with him; in fact, he wasn't sure why he had been sent to Wales in the first place, but the filing suited him.

And he still wore the same pale grass green shirts.

Avalon was also being rebuilt, even if there was a lack of children to educate. "Mr. Black" needed offices and Jean-Luc and Stephen (he and Ianto had mended fences and Stephen stuck strictly to their script) couldn't stay with his father indefinitely, so land was purchased outside Cardiff ... land which conveniently housed a large, sprawling manor. Jean-Luc had immediately claimed the master bedroom -- an enormous monstrosity of a room -- for his own, to which Ianto agreed. He then hired a contractor to divide the room into three smaller rooms who performed the work in less than a week.

Jean-Luc was not amused when he arrived in Cardiff and saw what had been done to "his" room.

For some reason, Ianto and Stephen found this terribly amusing.

Stephen walked with a cane now, faring a bit better than Jean-Luc who still suffered from debilitating headaches. Those had lessened with time, but after a particularly frightening instance where he had attempted to use his gifts ("I only wanted to show Bryce and Gareth a cool trick...") he hadn't tried anything since, to the concern of both Stephen and Ianto. Stephen swore Jean-Luc should be able to at least do small things without pain and believed it psychosomatic after the trauma at the original Avalon. Ianto didn't disagree. They tried everything they could think of, short of putting one of their lives in definite danger, but to no avail.

All the while, they continued their search for the missing, every day achieving the same answer as the day before. Ringing the children's parents or guardians with the lack of updates had been especially hard -- they had believed Avalon would protect their loved ones, and now the protectors had lost their children. Ianto felt guilty for wishing he could tell them they had killed his mother, but at least their children might be alive. But he refrained, applying concerned interest to his voice and listening to each of them, taking his frustration and anger out on a dummy Stephen had purchased for training purposes.

It worked well for exorcism of ghosts as well.

The next day, Jack and John used his car to perform a shared suicide. His entire life spent protecting life, of cherishing it and going to great lengths to save it (even if he failed), and Jack and John take their lives in his fucking car.

And Tosh wondered why he looked cross and Jack had the nerve to ask what was wrong.

Ianto didn't come down from his rooftop for a very, very long time.

***

"Ianto! Wait up!"

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. Instead, he calmly spun on his feet and gave Tosh the polite smile he reserved for tourists on one of his bad days. Tosh had been through a lot that day, the extent of Jack and her escapades still largely unknown, but everyone was aware of what he had done, of what Owen had done.

 _"You're just a teaboy."_

 _"I am much more than that."_

God, he'd _shot_ Owen and nearly blown his cover in the same breath. What kind of person did that? Moreover, what kind of employer shot his staff?

And Jack was despondent, for unclear reasons. Not that Ianto hadn't tried to figure it out. He had asked Jack if he was okay, if there was anything he could do. The answer had been a resounding "no" and a polite "leave me alone."

So he had, watching Tosh and Jack share a drink in his office as he nursed his ribs and pretended to check information on Tosh's computer. Ianto had caught part of what Tosh had said from reading her lips (they had made no effort to hide the conversation in the office), something about taking a name and toasting to Jack Harkness. It wasn't difficult putting the information together. Ianto knew from his father that Jack had borne another name, in another time. That he had taken Jack Harkness and met the real one should come as no surprise.

"Your report on activity while we were gone. A dragon sighting in the Beacons?"

Ianto could barely remember what he had typed up in the report. The entire day had been a blur of fear, pain, and self-hatred for his refusal to leave the Rift as it was and leave Jack and Tosh in the past. It was for the greater good, Rifts should never be opened. Perhaps a course in Torchwood history would do wonders for those at Torchwood Three -- a reminder of all things wrong when human arrogance oversteps their comprehension. He had never envied Jack's burden of weighing options and choosing the one least likely to result in mass destruction of the earth and her people. He was now getting a taste of it, and he didn't like it any better than it had appeared in the display case.

He skimmed through the report, nodding as he handed it back to Tosh. "Yes. I phoned and got a description. A large, pale shape in the sky. In other words, a cloud. Or a bird. There was no Rift activity in connection with it and only the one report."

"Right. You marked it unworthy of further investigation?" Tosh paused, seeming to judge her words carefully, "I don't want to return, either. But if there is unexplained activity, Torchwood should investigate."

It took a moment for her words to filter and the purpose reasoned. She was chastising him for his report? On the basis that he was, what, frightened to return? Of course he was and had no intent of ever returning to that cursed land that occasionally haunted his dreams, but all the same, the idea he'd keep everyone from going in case of an alien threat was ridiculous. "And if it merited Torchwood investigation, I would have deemed it such, Tosh. If there's another sighting, we'll send Jack and Owen."

Tosh's smile faltered at Jack's name, and Ianto used this to push for information. "Are you okay? You both seemed pretty upset. Can I get you some tea?"

"Oh, I'm fine." Tosh shook her head and waited for her to continue. People as a general rule were uncomfortable with silence in a conversation, lesson #53 in Torchwood One's Inquiry training manual. Wait a bit longer than normal and one usually walked away with far more information than was originally offered. That lesson was immediately followed by rules of interrogation. With Torchwood One, there hadn't been many; pretty much anything went. Not that anyone talked about it. "Jack will be okay, too. Going back in time, you know."

No, Ianto didn't really know. But he knew Jack, and a trip back in time would have been child's play. Ianto took a leap with what he knew, "Tosh. I know about Captain Jack Harkness, Jack's namesake. I know what happened."

Her head jerked up in surprise, the reports spilling from her hands. "But...how?"

Ianto carefully bent to help her pick things up; he was going to bruise spectacularly, but Tosh didn't need to be concerned with that. She was going to tell him what he wanted to know. And that was what was troubling Jack. "The pictures. It wasn't hard to piece everything together."

She appeared relieved to talk with someone; Ianto wasn't going to dissuade her from divulging information. "Oh, Ianto, he fell so hard. I hardly noticed at first...too caught up in figuring out how to deliver the calculations to you." Ianto tipped his head in acknowledgment of her efforts and smiled, his insides growing cold as she continued, "and then there was the dance. They kissed..." Tosh fanned herself, smiling as Ianto helped her to her feet. "Can a person really fall in love at first sight? I didn't believe it until now. He's heartbroken, and I don't know what to do for him."

Jack Harkness and...Jack Harkness. Of course. How appropriate.

He was a fool.

Ianto pointed out to Tosh, with as much warmth and cheer as he could apply without coming off smarmy and attempting to bed her, "your conversation in his office helped. Whatever you said to him, you said the right thing. He just needs time."

Her smile was brilliant, pure Tosh shining through the unnatural gloom, and her quick hug sincere if not a bit painful. Ianto just maintained his polite smile and winked, feeling again when he spoke with Tosh like he was speaking with Elaine. They were remarkably similar at times. "And I promise you won't be sent back to the Beacons on a wild-dragon chase. I'll slash the tires of the SUV if I have to. It'll be our secret."

She laughed her unique Tosh laugh, carefree and innocent. On any other occasion it would have spread to him as well and he'd have to consciously stop himself from laughing as well. She told him thanks and hurried back from the kitchen to her desk where Ianto assumed she would file her report.

Given it was after hours, Ianto had no qualms in leaving. He grabbed his jacket and keys from the Information Center and never looked back.

***

Ianto was three glasses into his bottle of whiskey when his phone rang. At first, he thought it was Jack and now would not be the time to talk with Jack -- Ianto was perfectly maudlin and he'd hate to ruin his inebriated state by becoming angry with the man. Jack wasn't the one he was angry at; he had never pretended that whatever he and Ianto had was more than a buddy fuck. Ianto had grown careless. He understood that and owned his responsibility in the night's drinking. That didn't make him overly eager to speak with Jack, however.

It was Jean-Luc, though, and Ianto grinned at his phone, having considered calling him half-a-glass ago. He answered on the second ring. "Are you psychic? I was just thinking of calling you."

"Very funny, Ianto. Are you pissed?"

"Quite possibly. My glass says yes, but the bottle says no. Ask me in two more glasses, the bottle might agree."

"Fuck, _mon grand_. What happened? Where are you? I can come over, Stephen's just going over these files again and he wouldn't mind if I leave."

"No, you wouldn't mind if you left. He would." Ianto flipped through the channels on the telly, finding nothing on but Red Dwarf re-runs. The time dragged by, and Ianto wondered if Jean-Luc had read the same training manual he had. He obfuscated, selecting another topic which was equally troublesome but less embarrassing to admit to. "I shot a coworker today. Intentionally."

A blur of French followed, of which Ianto caught only a phrase or two. His mind was still concentrating on his fourth glass.

"Was it Jack?"

God, Jean-Luc sounded almost hopeful. "No. Owen."

"Him? Good. He deserved it for drugging you and being a twat."

Ianto snorted, having forgotten that Jean-Luc knew all of that. "That's no excuse. I shouldn't have done it."

"You had reason, you wouldn't have done it otherwise. What'd he do?"

He considered what he should say, then dismissed it in favor of shock value. "Destabilized a space/time Rift creating a tear which could splinter over the globe and eradicate what we understand as linear time before erasing our very existence in the universe."

Jean-Luc's silence was worthy of another sip from his glass after a mock toast.

"Well, you lot don't do anything by half, do you?"

Ianto laughed; he couldn't help it at the gross understatement. Events did seem quite large, even leaving out the part about choosing to strand Jack and Tosh in the pages of history.

"How are you doing? Are you sure you don't want me there?"

 _"In your dreams, Ianto, in your sad, wet dreams where you're his part-time shag."_ Ianto shook his head, glad for Jean-Luc's inability to read his thoughts. How was he doing? He was doing splendid. He had a bottle of whiskey, an empty flat, plenty of idiocy, and Red Dwarf on the telly. What more could he ask for from an evening at home? "No, don't bother. I'll be right come morning. Remember the time we snuck into Mr. Shoemaker's room and stole that bottle of brandy he hid in his desk drawer?"

Jean-Luc's laughter echoed in the hollow, empty corners of Ianto's flat. "We drank it all. And you were so sick the next morning. Took me bribing Betsy in the kitchens to get you some ginger ale and cream crackers."

"Always looking out for me, weren't you?"

"Still am." Ianto didn't say anything, just stared at the telly and refused to give in to the weeping mess he wished to become. It'd be so easy.

God he was a fool. He'd thought he'd actually _meant_ something.

"Mr. Shoemaker. He wasn't gifted."

Ianto nodded before realizing Jean-Luc couldn't see him. He raised his glass in silent toast to the dead and drank before responding. "I know." The three of them had gone through the list of staff, noting everyone who was gifted and who wasn't. The ones who weren't...they probably never made it out of Avalon. The others...

"We'll find them, Ianto."  
He grinned sadly, laying down on his couch and pulled a blanket over his shoulders. "Are you sure you're not psychic?"

"Right now, I'm as good as you, with only half the brain."

"A sorry state for you. I'm going to hang up now and fall asleep." Ianto fluffed the pillow behind him, but didn't bother shutting the telly off. Maybe he'd dream of Red Dwarf.

"Are you sure--"

"No."

"Okay, then. I'm calling in the morning to make sure you're alive."

"Goodnight, Jean-Luc." Ianto clicked the mobile off and silenced it, throwing it onto the coffee table without a care watching as a rose petal floated to the floor. He'd pick it up in the morning.

Fool.

***

He woke to insistent taps on his face, taps refusing to go away no matter how much he batted at them. For a moment he was confused, thinking it was his nephews -- this was a very nephew-thing to do. But no, he'd come home after sentencing Jack and Tosh to the 1940s, shooting Owen, then learning Jack loved Jack.

Jack squared.

He tried to calculate what that would equal, but it just hurt to consider.

"Ianto."

Speaking of Jack's squared, Ianto tried to focus on the visions swimming in front of him. "Jack?"

"Let's get you to bed. You smell like a distillery."

Bed? Right, he was on the couch. But...Jack was in his flat. "Why're you here?" was what Ianto meant to say, though he was pretty sure it came out "Yoorear?" He was drunk, not deaf.

Jack's laughter didn't sound amused, but Ianto couldn't remember why he wouldn't be. "I looked for you and you were gone."

"Sick."

"You were sick?"

Ianto shook his head, cursing his stupidity as the room swam and his stomach rolled with it. He should have just said so. "No, sick." He pushed his way past Jack into his bathroom and shut the door, much preferring to vomit in private. Not that there was much there; he couldn't remember eating but then, there had been other matters to consider, like leaving Jack and Tosh at the dance hall when he knew what happened the following day.

He hated his job.

How did Jack do it?

He rested his head on the tile for a moment to gather enough strength to crawl to bed, where he hoped he would sleep through the day and into the next month. He would have stayed there too, except the floor was freezing and his teeth were chattering.

Ianto stood up and grabbed the sink, finding his toothbrush too quickly clean his teeth, followed by a glass of water which appeared by his hand that he couldn't remember pouring.

Jack.

The other man was standing in the bathroom doorway, waiting patiently with his arms crossed. His hair looked less perky than it usually did, but Ianto supposed a broken heart did that to a person -- inflicted calamities of hair proportions. Ianto drank the glass dutifully and moved to walk into the bedroom, but Jack motioned first with his hands, then he tugged on Ianto's shirt. Off. But it was so cold. His bed would be warm, however, and so he stripped it off with Jack's help with the braces, shucking the rest of the clothes easily after the tricky braces were dealt with. He was stopped from entering his bedroom by Jack, whose hands pressed the spectacular bruise on his chest.

Felt spectacular too.

"He kicked me. I shot him. We're square." Ianto answered Jack's unspoken question, pushing his way into his bedroom and falling onto the bed. A bit of a mistake, but he could breathe after a moment. The bed dipped as Jack climbed onto it, feeling wonderfully warm as he enveloped Ianto in his arms and pulled the linens up around Ianto's chin. The shakes from the cold tile floor melted away and once Ianto could think beyond cold, he hated himself for enjoying the warmth.

He was just a part-time shag. He had to remember that. And yet there he was, basking in the warmth. Jack was just this giant black hole of charisma and charm and Ianto had fallen into it as easily as the ones he'd mocked for failing to pay attention to the path they were headed on. He _knew_ better.

Yet, there he was, half-drunk and clinging to Jack.

"You didn't have to leave."

Oh, yes, he did. Ianto was quite certain in this. Jack had fallen in love in a matter of hours, and fallen hard enough to droop his hair. Ianto had no business staying at the Hub. Not in his sad, wet dreams.

"Work was finished."

"That's never stopped you before from staying."

Ianto didn't answer, pretending to sleep. It was safer, and excused by his drinking But as much as he wanted to pretend that he was more than just a tea boy, lying in Jack's arms, he knew what love was to Jack, and he knew he wasn't it.

It was just a part-time shag, after all.  
   
***

Four days had passed since Jack vanished without a trace.

Four days and no answers.

Ianto wondered if there was a magical day when he would stop caring, when it should stop bothering him that Jack left with no note, no farewell, no goodbyes.

It had been ten days since Ianto had watched Owen kill Jack.

Ten days since Jack had died without immediately waking.

Six days since Jack had played Lazarus and rose from the dead, hugging all of them and kissing Ianto like he meant it.

Four days since he'd vanished, and now Ianto was accepting. Jack was never coming back.

"Tosh, watch it!" Ianto pulled Tosh out of the alien's path. It was an unknown to Ianto (Jack would know), a three-headed dog-like creature worthy of Greek legend. Perhaps one had ventured to earth before, inspiring the legends of Cerebus, but that information did not help them contain the beast.

They were falling apart.

Tosh felt nothing but guilt for her role in the Rift's opening. Billis had tricked her with memory of her mother, and she'd trusted Owen. That, and Ianto was rather certain she still carried a flame for him, even if he was a twat hellbent on self-destructing. She tried her best, chaining herself to her desk to run report after report searching for Jack, for Torchwood Four, for any anomaly she might help prevent.

She was the only one who didn't look at Ianto with pity, just empathy. He didn't mind making her tea.

Tosh and Ianto turned and fired their guns at the beast when they heard Gwen's scream. It hadn't touched her yet, but was threatening, massive jaws snapping and clacking with what Ianto was certain was enough force to snap a tree trunk.

Gwen appeared to take Jack's disappearance hardest, though Ianto doubted the sincerity. He supposed he was still bitter when she refused to leave Jack's side at the morgue -- not that Ianto wanted to sit in vigilance, but he might have enjoyed yelling at the stiff figure, cursing him in as many languages he could think of for the stupidity of dying for the greater fucking good and begging for an answer as to why.

But he couldn't, not while Gwen was there.

He wondered if she loved Jack. It was possible, it was easy enough to do -- Jack was a man many loved but few felt love in return -- but that left Ianto confused as to where Rhys fit in. She still lived with him, and yet she acted with obsessed compulsion to find Jack as though he were a lover who had disappeared. Perhaps Ianto had always been single-minded in his relationships, utterly focused on one individual. Or maybe it was that he had fallen for Jack himself -- cut out the middle man and went straight for the top.

That just left him farther to fall.

She barely ate, barely slept. Ianto had finally had enough of her wasting away and set a plate down in front of her and watched her eat. And then pass out as the sleeping pill he'd laced her dessert with kicked in. She looked better after the rest, color to her face. Rhys had been concerned when Ianto carried her to their front door, but he'd assured him it was a temporary thing. Then he'd proceeded to lecture Rhys on proper care of loved ones and to make sure she ate breakfast in the morning.

He hadn't argued. In fact, he'd offered Ianto a beer.

"Ianto!"

Ianto caught sight of Owen racing in, throwing Ianto a corner of the containment netting Ianto had remembered in the Archives. Owen had gone back for that and his kit -- all of them were banged up and Ianto would probably need stitches -- and had taken his time returning from Ianto's point of view.

Owen...Ianto had to, not respect, but admire him. He'd attempted to take control of the situation, claiming his status as new leader of Torchwood Three in Jack's absence as second in command. He'd tried, then sought Ianto while he had been lost in the Archives and asked if he wouldn't take over for a while, seeing as how Ianto was better at the diplomacy thing. Owen was far more a "practical approach kind of guy."

From the stories Ianto heard later from the Prime Minister, Owen had taken a very practical approach and told her to shove off.

He had been affected as well, Owen had, his barbs less pointed than they had been before, his complaining less amusing and more whining. The first few days after Jack's disappearance, Ianto thought he had actually caught Owen watching after him -- for what, Ianto wasn't sure, but he had appeared almost concerned. That was the thing about Owen, once one bothered to understand him. While he might take the piss and tussle with those of Torchwood Three, he watched out for each of them like they were family. He actually got _angry_ at those who intended to harm the family.

Perhaps, for Owen, they were. Ianto didn't really know anything about Owen's family life -- aside from Torchwood records stating divorced parents, growing up with his mom, being bounced from school to school, and always getting into trouble but still managing to get into medicine.

Really, all things considered, Ianto thought as he gave one corner to Tosh to run to the hind quarters of the beast, that's how they functioned. A dysfunctional family unit. It had been easy for Ianto to turn his back on Jack, to side with Owen. Well, it hadn't been so much as side with Owen but to doubt Jack's superior knowledge of everything and everything. He had doubted Jack. Maybe he'd been swayed by his emotions in regards to his reevaluation of his perceived relationship with Jack, maybe it was remembering the regret on Jack's face in the viewscope of the ghost machine. But at the same time, Ianto had wept when he believed Jack permanently dead. His loss _hurt_ , more than Ianto would have imagined given the distance he'd hastily built between them. Jack's greatcoat -- Ianto remembered sex on top of the Millennium Center and clutched it to his face. Life had been simple then, black and white, not these shades of grey that colored their world. Because nothing was simple anymore. They didn't chase weevils with weevil spray; they chased three-headed beasts with razor-sharp fangs with nothing but a net between them.

"Gwen!" Ianto threw the final corner at her, hoping she'd catch it while the beast's heads were distracted by Owen screaming (like a girl, Ianto thought). She did and the netting surged to life, snapping a brilliant red grid into place and a dome over the head of the beast, corners held by the four remaining of Torchwood Three.

Maybe they were broken, maybe they were falling apart. But they had a duty to perform -- to protect the citizens of Britain and from the size of things that popped through the Rift, the world. Jack had left them, abandoned them, doomed them to whatever destiny had in store. But Ianto would never run from his duty as Mr. Black -- nor as Ianto, temporary leader of Torchwood Three and tea boy extraordinaire. He had been borne into it. And so long as the others were willing, they'd do what they could to save those they could save, research what they could research, and claim what they could claim.

Because they were Torchwood. And Torchwood was them.


End file.
